t^§^HE>^ 




^oddard 




THE 



RIQHTEST GEMS 



OF 



POETRY, PROSE and SONG 

CONTAINING 

The Best Productions of the Most Celebrated Authors 
OF ALL Ages and Countries 

INCLUDING THE 

GLORIES OF NATURE; HOME LIFE AND RURAL SCENES; FAMOUS BALLADS; 

national airs and love SONGS; CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH; 

PATRIOTS AND HEROES; TALES OF THE SEA; 

BRIGHTEST THOUGHTS OF THE WORLDS MASTER MINDS 

EMBRACING 

SCOTCH AND IRISH MELODIES; TRAGEDY AND SORROW; SACRED POEMS; 

WIT AND WISDOM; CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS; 

BIOGRAPHIES OF AUTHORS, ETC., ETC. 

THE WHOLE FORMING 

A COMPLETE LIBRARY OF POETRY, PROSE AND SONG 

COMPILED AND EDITED ^/ 

By henry davenport f^ioRTHROP 

Author of "Peerlebs Reciter," "Crown Jewels." Etc.. Etc. 



MAGNIFICENTLY EMBELLISHED WITH 250 SUPERB PHOTOTYPE 
ENGRAVINGS AND ILLUSTRATIONS ON WOOD 



NATIONAL PUBLISHING CO.. 

239, 241 AND 243 AMERICAN ST.. 
PHILADELPHIA, PA. 

L. 




Tlfl^fftlHIlllWWED 



^ 



i 



y 



\\1 



«t> 




2775 

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1S9S, by 

J. R. JONES, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 

All Rights Reserved. 



PREFACE 



MAC AULA Y, in his brilliant essay on John Milton, says: "We hold that the 
most wonderful and splendid proof of genius is a great poem produced 
in a civilized age." Adopting such a standard, this new and peerless 
volume is a magnificent repository of the gems of genius, gathered from the most 
celebrated authors of all countries and ages. Its delightful pages are enriched 
by the most beautiful and entrancing selections of Poetry, Prose and Song. These 
are all classified and arranged under their appropriate tides. 

' Home, Sweet Home comprises gems for the fireside, picturing in glowing 
colors the delights of the home circle, the beauty of domestic life and the sweet 
memories that cluster around the old homestead. 

The Charms of Nature contain the most graphic pen-pictures of Natural 
Scenery, including the Picturesque, the Beautiful and the Sublime. This is the 

natural field of poetry; 

"Here valleys bloom and mountains rise, 
And landscapes smile beneath the skies." 

The earth, the sea, and the vaulted heavens are portrayed to the reader's wonder- 
ing eye. The Poetry gf the Year forms another part and contains the most 
charming descriptions of the Seasons, their Flowers, Birds and Pleasant Pastimes. 
Descriptions and Tales of the Sea furnish a striking panorama of the World 
of Waters. The white-winged ships, the bounding billows, the bold sailor, the 
floral beauties cf the vasty deep are all vividly depicted. Who does not love 
nature ? What a elow of health comes from the fresh breezes of the sea and 
from hillside and valley. 

"God made the country and man made the town." 

The Album of Love. — This part contains the most exquisite and beautiful 
selections, in delightful variety, gathered from every source. Here are the sweet- 
est and most entrancing productions of Burns, Byron, Longfellow, Bryant, Moore, 
Emerson, Hood, Tennyson, Shakespeare, Saxe, Irving, Scott, Swinburne, Thacke- 
ray, Browning and scores of others who have woven the charms of their brightest 
genius around the one great master passion. 



ii PREFACE. 

Narratives in Verse comprise a captivating collection of Tales of Adventure 
and Romance, beginning with the " Massacre at Fort Dearborn, Chicago, in 1812." 
In this part famous historic incidents are related in verse by renowned authors, 
such as Austin Dobson, Frederick Von Schiller, Longfellow and Whittier, Baxen- 
dale and Tennyson, Bryant, Helen Hunt Jackson and many others. The most 
thrilling events are celebrated and are given undying fame by the poetic genius of 
the brilliant authors who narrate them. The next part includes Ballads and 
National Airs. These rivet the attention of the reader and in imagination he 
beholds the scenes they depict as living realities. Our most celebrated National 
Songs are found in this part, including "The Battle Hymn of the Republic," "The 
Star Spangled Banner," "My Maryland," "The German's Fatherland," etc. 

Hope and Memory, or Glimpses of the Past and Future, embrace a delightful 
collection of poems which carry the reader back to the scenes of long-ago, the 
memories of childhood, the joys of other days, and draw aside the veil of the future, 
through which are seen the blossoms of immortal hope. 

Next we have Patriots and Heroes, commemorating their noble sacrifices 
and valiant deeds. Great men who live in history, who rose in their might, and 
with undaunted heroism purchased the liberties which are the world's proudest 
possession, are celebrated in immortal song. There is an irresistible fascination 
about these time-honored heroes, whose grand lineaments are here photographed 
for universal admiration. Among other productions, we have that thrilling lyric, 
entitled "The Cuban Crisis." 

" Red is the setting sun, 

Redder the Cuban sod ; 
Maceo's valiant fight is done 

For freedom and for God. 
The long-leaved pine and the stately palm 

Bend lowly in grief to-night, 
And through the hush of the tropic calm 
There rolls from the sea a mournful psalm, 

A requiem over the right." 

The Sword and the Plow is another part of this superb volume, which 
describes the victories of war and of peace. The most renowned writers have 
celebrated the sentiment which is taking deeper root every day, that 

"Peace hath her victories no less renowned than war," 

a saying of Milton, the truth of which no one will deny. The war-cloud lifts from 
the torn battle-field ; the thunder of guns is hushed; armies are disbanded, and 
where the sod was red with blood, peaceful harvests wave in their golden glory. 



PREFACE. iii 

Rural Scenes portray the lights and shadows of country life. Here the pages 
are fragrant with the floral breath of summer fields and woods. "The whistling 
plow-boy drives his team afield," and the scythes of the mowers glint in the sun- 
shine. The old farmhouse stands embosomed in cool shadows. "The busy 
housewife plies her evening care," and, in the winter, sleigh-bells jingle, skaters 
skim the mirrored lake, and the glow of health beams in the faces of happy country 
boys and girls. Nothing could be more inviting than these Rural Scenes. 

Then comes a wide-awake collection of poems, entitled The World's Work- 
ers, in which the nobility of labor is eulogized. Here we learn " How Cyrus laid 
the Cable," how "you have but to take one step and then another, and the longest 
walk is ended;" how to win in the batde of life, and with what happy expressions 
the poet Whittier wrote of the ship-builders, the shoe-makers and the lumbermen. 
Here, too, are the songs of buskers, the plowmen and the whole vast army of the 
sons of toil. 

The next part embraces the Beauty and Grandeur of the Alps, containing 
brilliant descriptions of Swiss Scenery. Here Byron appears in the grand march 
of his lofty imagery. Snow-capped mountains veil their heads in the sky ; cascades 
dash from towering summits and rivers of ice move majestically toward the deep 
valleys. 

Above me are the Alps, 

The palaces of nature, whose vast walls 
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, 

And throned eternity in icy halls 
Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls 

The avalanche — the thunderbolt of snow ! 
All that expands the spirit, yet appalls. 

Gathers around the summits, as to show 
How earth may soar to heaven, yet leave vain man below. — Lord Byron. 

Let it not be supposed that the little people are forgotten. The part on 
Childhood and Youth contains captivating selections for the young. All the 
innocence of childhood, the sports of the little folks as well as the pathos of their 
merry laughter hushed in death, are depicted with a master hand. Our literature 
is rich in tales and lessons for the young, the brightest and best of which adorn 
these pages. 

The Crown of Genius, containing tributes to celebrated persons, sings the 
praises of those whose names have become historic, while the part entitled 
Thought and Sentiment embraces the choicest productions from master minds on 
a great variety of topics. A vast collection of the finest poems ever written. 



iv PREFACE. 

Tragedy and Sorrow comprises pathetic selections from the most distinguished 
authors. This part has a pecuHar charm and beauty of its own. The Gates of 
Pearl appeal to the religious sentiment and give full expression to the soul's 
loftiest aspirations. Here are glowing tributes to faith and hope ; pithy descrip- 
tions of the practical virtues ; tender words of comfort for the bereaved and grand 
descriptions of the heavenly world. 

Wit and Wisdom, comprising sparkling gems from the world's humorists> 
contains the brightest and most fascinating collection of witty pieces. There is 
wholesome mirth on every page. This part is followed by a large Cyclopedia of 
Poetical Quotations, the subjects being arranged alphabetically. 

There is need of Vocal and Instrumental Music in every family, and often 
little opportunity to obtain it. This volume contains a choice collection of music 
from composers of world-wide fame. Thus it is a complete and charming house- 
hold book. It contains something of special interest to all classes of intelligent 
persons. The refining and elevating influence of one such book in the home is 
beyond the power of any one to estimate. 

The work also contains Biographies of Celebrated Authors, whose produc- 
tions appear in this volume. Here are given the main facts in the lives of those 
gifted men and women who have charmed all readers with their delightful effu- 
sions. The publishers are firmly convinced that nothing has been omitted to 
render this work complete. It has been made from the very best materials and 
is o-olden throuo-hout. 




HOME, SWEET HOME. 



I'AGE 

The Light of Home . . . Sarali J. Hale 17 

My Child J.R.Lozvcll 18 

A Mother's Love Emily Taylor 19 

By the Fire '. . 19 

The Little Arm-Chair 19 

An Old Sweetheart of Mine . /. W. Riley 21 

Alone in the House . . Mary T. Willard 22 

The Old Friends . . . . 0. W. Holmes 22 

Charity Bishop Ken 23 

That Circle of Gold . . W. D. Ellwattgcr 23 

Old Christmas 24 

Two Pictures 24 

Dearest Love ! Believe Me . Thos. Pringle 24 

Twilight Corriiic M. Rocktvcll 24 

A Wife's Appeal to Her Husband ... 25 

Grandmother's Work . Mrs. C. E. Hewitt 25 

An Idyl of the Kitchen . /. A. Eraser, Jr. 20 

The Open Window . H. W. Longfclloiu 2(3 

Where there's One to Love, Clias. Swain 26 

The Proudest Lady . . Thomas Wcslzi'o •:/ 27 

The Home-coming Lord Byrjii 27 

The First Smile '. . 28 

The Two Gates 29 

The Empty House 29 

The Joys of Home .... John Bozvring 29 
She Grew in Sun and Siiower 

William Wordsworth 30 

True Contentment H. S. Kent 30 

Our First-born Gerald Massey 31 

The Mortgage on the F"arm 32 

Love in a Cottage N. P. Willis 33 

Grandfather's House. . . Mary McGuire 33 

Happy Love . . , . Charles Afackay 34 

The Old Barn . . . . T. Buchanan Read 34 

Good-night Song 35 



Page 
35 



One of the Sleepy Kind 

All, No ! I cannot .say " Farewell " 

Alexander Rodger 
Bertha in the Lane, Elizabeth B. Browning 

Absence Fanny K. Butler 

The Happy Lot .... Ebenezer Elliott 

The Baby C. G. Rogers 

.Scenes of my Youth . . Robert Hillhousc 
The Three Dearest Words 

Mary J. Muckle 

The Mother Charles Swain 

The Old Farmhouse . H. W. Longfelloiu 
The Cricket on the Hearth, W. C. Bennett 

My Own Fireside '\. A. Watts 

The Window D. F. McCarthy 

The Lost Little One 

Gathering Apples 43 

Home — a Duet .... Barry Cornwall 43 
If Thou hast Lost a Friend, Charles Szvain 

I Think on Thee T. K. Hervey 

Unconscious Influence 

Domestic Love George Croly 

Not L"st, but Gone Before, Caroline A^orton 

Aunt Jemima's Quilt 

The Old Oaken Bucket, 5(iw.'. Woodivorth 

Bereft r W. Riley 

I Come to Thee, My Wife ir>u. Brunton 



35 
36 
36 

37 
37 
38 

38 
39 
40 
40 
41 
42 
42 



The Happy Husband . . S. T. Coleridge 



43 
44 
44 
44 

45 
45 
47 
47 
48 
49 



Just What I Wanted 49 

Come Home . . . F-.liciaD. Hemans 50 

Farewell . Lord Ryron 50 

Near Thee Charles Szvain -50 

Her Feeble Steps . . . . /. R. Eastwood 51 

Failed ' 52 

Everv Inch a Man 52 



VI 



CONTENTS. 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 



After Sunset E. Mathcson 

A Moonlight Night . . . Jane Sedgzvick 

The Rose Sir Walter Scott 

Spring Alfred Tennyson 

The Use of Flowers. . . . Mary Howitt 
Song of the Summer Winds, Geo. Darley 

Only Promises Robert Herrick 

The Rocky Mountains . . . Albert Pike 

The Falls of Niagara 

The Vale of Cashmere . . Thomas Moore 
The Nightingale .... Matthezv Arnold 
To the Daisy . . . William Wordsivorth 

The Brook H. W. Longfelloiv 

Hark ! Hark ! the Lark, Win. Shakespeare 

Winter Song C. T Brooks 

Cape-Cottage at Sunset . . W. B. Glazier 

The Bobolink Thomas Hill 

Perseverance R. S. S. Andros 

The Stormy Petrel . . . Barry Cormvall 
The Pelican .... James Montgomery 

Casco Bay J- G. Whitticr 

Lilacs Henry Davenport 

Flowers H W. Longfelloiv 

A Scene on the Hudson . W. C. Bryant 
Pack Clouds Away .... 7". Hey wood 
Our Great Plains .... Joaquin Miller 
A Dream of Summer . . . J. G. Whitticr 

A Song to Ma\' Lord Thtirhnv 

The Wood Madison Cawcm 

Osme's Song George Darley 

The Rivulet W. C. Bryant 

The Nightingale John Boivriug 

The Swallow Charlotte Smith 

The Early Primrose . . . . H. K. White 
The Father of Waters . . Sarah J. Hale 

Butterfly Beau T. H. Bayly 

The Old Man of the Mountain 

J. T. Trowbridge 

After Summer P. B. Marston 

The Dainty Rose .... Thomas Hood 

Snowdrops Rodcn Noel 

The Moss Rose . . . F. W. Krummacher 
Folding the Flocks, Beaumont & Fletcher 



Page 
53 
53 
53 
54 
54 
56 
56 
56 
57 
57 
58 
58 
60 
60 
61 
61 
62 
62 
63 
63 
64 
64 
66 
67 
67 
67 
68 
69 
69 
70 
71 
72 
72 
72 
73 
73 

73 
74 

74 
76 

77 
77 



Page 

Butterfly Life T. H. Bayly 77 

The Songsters fames Tliomson 78 

The Sparrow J. Von Linden 79 

Indian Summer 79 

To a Mouse Robert Burns 80 

Summer Woods John Clare 80 

The West Wind W.C. Bryant 81 

The Foolish Harebell, George J\Iacdonald 81 

To the Daisy . . . William Wordsivorth 81 

To the Skylark . . William Wordsivorth 82 

The Pine Forest by the Sea, P. B. Shelley 83 

One Swallow M. E. Blaine 83 

The Flower Alfred Tennyson 85 

New England in Winter . /. G. Whitticr 85 

To the Fringed Gentian . W. C. Biyant 85 

TheThrush 86 

Spring Horace Smith 87 

The Comet B. F. Taylor 87 

Lake Mahopac . . . Caroline M. Sawyer 88 

The Bugle Alfred Tennyson 88 

Roses Red and White. . William Cowan 89 

The Nightingale . . . . S. T. Coleridge 89 

The North Star W. C. Bryant 89 

Harvest Ellen M. Hutchinson 90 

Song of the Brook . . . Alfred Tennyson 90 

Midsummer J- F. Trowbridge 91 

Trailing Arbutus . . . Rose Terry Cooke 92 

Little Streams Mary Howitt 92 

The Buried Flower .... W. E. Aytoun 93 

The Sand-piper Celia Thaxter 94 

Elegy — Written in Spring, 

3Tichael Bruce 94 

American Skies W. C. Bryant 95 

Hampton Beach J- G. Whitticr 96 

The Changed Song . . . R. W. Emerson 96 

The Garden Andrew Marvell 97 

To the River Arve .... W. C. Bryant 97 
View Across the Roman Campagna 

Elizabeth B. Browning 98 

The Birch-tree J. R. Lowell 98 

The Glory of Motion . R. S.J. Tyrwhitt 99 

The Windy Night T B. Read 100 

The Owl 100 



POETRY OF THE YEAR. 



The Year's Twelve Children 101 

Joy of Spring Leigh Hunt 101 

March— Chaffinch 102 

Spring Felicia D. Hcmans 102 

March William Wordsworth 102 

April— Lark 104 



Day ; A Pastoral . . . John Cunningham 104 
The Grasshopper . . . Abraham Cowley 104 

April William Shakespeare 105 

A Walk by the Water . Charlotte Smith 105 
Bud and Bloom .... Alfred Tennyson 105 
The Open Day Henry Alford 105 



CONTENTS. 



vu 



Page 

May — Nightingale 106 

The Primrose John Clare \0Q 

A Tribute to May . . . William Roscoe 106 
The Woodland in Spring 

William Ccnvpcr 107 
Breathings of Spring . Felicia D. Henians 107 
Corinna's Gone A-Maying, Robert Herrick 108 

On May Morning John Milton 109 

Summer Eve H. K. White 109 

Children in Spring John Clare \\^ 

The Rose Edninnd Waller 110 

Morning in Summer . . James Thomson 112 

A June Day William Howitt 112 

June — Dove 112 

July — Cuckoo 113 

Repose in Summer. . . Aljred Tennyson 113 
Sonnet on Country Life . . .John Keats 113 
The Blackbird .... Alfred Tennjson 113 

August — Wren 114 

Summer Reverie John Keats 114 

Shepherd and Flock . . James Thomson 114 

A Winter Sketch Ralph Hoyt ll'i 

To Meadows Robert Herriek 115 

A Song for the Seasons . Barry Cornwall 116 
Summer's Haunts . . Felicia D. Hematis 116 
The Last Rose of Summer, Thotnas Moore 116 



Page 

Fair Summer Willis G. Clark 116 

A Day in Autumn . . . Robert Soiithey 116 

September — Curlew 117 

A Song for September . . T.W. Parsons 1 1 7 
Serenity of Autumn . .James Thomson 117 

Autumn Thomas Hood 118 

Autumn Flowers . . Caroline B. Southey 118 

October — Swallow 119 

October 119 

Beauties of Autumn . . . Carlos Wilcox 120 

November — Sea-gull 121 

A Still Day in Autumn, Sarah H. Whitman 121 
Verses in Praise of Angling 

Sir Henry Wotton 121 

December — Robin 123 

Autumn— A Dirge . . . . P. B. Shelley 123 
The First Snowfall . . . . f. R. Lozvell 124 

Old-time Winter 124 

Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind 

William Sliakespeai'e 125 
Dirge for the Year . . . . P. B. Shelley 125 

January — Owl 125 

The Last Snow of Winter, Saj'ah Dondney 126 

Skating William Wordsworth 126 

February — Sparrow 126 

Withered Flowers .... John Bethnne 128 



DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA. 



The Life Brigade .... Minnie Mackay 129 
The Landsman's Song . Barry Cornwall 130 
My Brigantine . . . J Fenimore Cooper ViO 
Is my Lover on the Sea, Barry Cornwall 132 
The Lighthouse . . . H. W. Longfelloiv 133 

The Minute Gun R. S. Sharpe 134 

I Loved the Ocean Eliza Cook 134 

The White Squall . . . W. M. Thackeray 135 
The Boatmen's Song. . Henry Davenport 135 
Tacking Ship off Shore . Walter Mitchell 136 
The Solitude of the Sea . . Lord Byron 136 

The Ocean James Montgomery 1 38 

The Gray Swan Alice Cary 138 

Sailor's Song Charles Dibdin 139 

The Sea in Calm .... Barry Cornwall 139 
The Lost Atlantic . . . John Talman, Jr. 140 

Twilight H.W. Longfellow 141 

Mary's Dream Jolm Loive 141 



Drifting T.B.ReadWI 

The Launching of the Ship, //. /■/^^ Ztf«/f//o2<:/ 143 
Mariner's Hymn . . Caroline B. Southey 144 
TheReturnof the Admiral, i>rf;'r!/d9;'«7£'«//145 

Life's Troubled Sea 145 

The Sailor's Journal . . Charles Dibdin 146 
A Song of the Sea . . Catherine Warfield 147 
The Sound of the Sea, Felicia D. Hemans 148 

The Mermaid Alfred Tennyson 149 

The Shipwreck Lord Byron 160 

The Secret of the Sea . //. W. Longfellow 151 

Drifting out to Sea 152 

The Voyage Alfred Tennyson 153 

By the Sea 153 

The Sea-Fairies .... Alfred Tennyson 154 
An Old-fashioned Sea-fight, Walt Whitman 155 
The Sailor-Boy .... Alfred Tennyson 155 
The Gallant Sail-boat . Henry Davenport 156 



ALBUM OF LOVE. 



A Cuban Love Song . . . Daisy Deaiie 157 
I Won't Be Your Dearie Any More 

Rose Reilly. 157 

My Ideal S. M. Peck \h% 

The First Kiss .... Thomas Campbell 159 



Quakerdom C. G. Hal pine 159 

Marion Moore J. G. Clark 159 

Speak it Once More, Elisabeth B. Browning 160 
Her Bright Eyes Told Me Yes 

T. L. Sappington 160 



CONTENTS. 



Page 
The Chess Board . . . R. Bulwer Lytton 160 
Woo the Fair One . . . . W. C. Byya^it \<o^ 

Wedding Bells Eliza Cook 163 

Mizpah 164 

True Love 164 

Bonnie Wee Thing .... Robert Burns 164 
Her Christmas Letter . Augusta Prcscott 164 
Oh, Doubt Me Not . . . Thomas Moore 165 

Remembered Thomas Moore 165 

To My Dream Love . Walter A. Cassels 166 
Kiss Me and Be Still . . . . S. M. Peck 166 
The Arctic Lover .... W. C. Bryant 167 

The Welcome Thomas Davis 168 

Can You Forget Me . Letitia E. Laiidon 168 
The Stars are with the Voyager 

Thomas Hood 168 
Ethel's Song of Love . Henry Davenport 169 
For Love's Sweet Sake . Barry Cornwall 169 
The Sleeping Beauty . . Alfred Tennyson 170 
The Revival of the Sleeping Beauty 

Alfred Temiyson 170 
The "Sleeping Beauty" Departs with 

Her Lover .... Alfred Tennyson 170 
The Belle of the Ball . . . W. M. Praed 171 
My True Love Hath My Heart 

Sir Philip Sidney 171 

A Reverie 172 

The Bachelor's Soliloquy 172 

Constancy Adele Auze 172 

Go, Happy Rose .... Robert Herrick 172 

Light F.W. Bourdillon 172 

Love and May .... Elinora L. Hervey 1 74 

Estranged J. G. Saxe 174 

Love me Little, Love me Long .... 175 
The Milkmaid's Song . . Sydney Dobell 175 

The Plaything .' . . . 175 

When Should Lovers Breathe their Vows 

Letitia E. Landon 176 
Moll McCarty . . . . C. N. Wallington 176 
A Heine Love Song . . Eugene Field 176 
A Gleam of Sunshine . H. W. Longfellozv 178 
Up, Quit Thy Bower. . .Joanna Baillie 178 

Following Suit 178 

I Saw Two Clouds at Morning 

/. G. C. Braifiard 179 
Green Grow the Rashes, O! 

Robert Burns 179 

A Madrigal 179 

Gathering Poppies S.J.Reilly 180 

Love's Flower 180 

Jamie's on the Sea 180 

Song Caroline Oliphant 181 

When Your Beauty Appears, 

Thomas Parnell 181 



. Page 
Sweet, Be Not Proud . . Robert Herrick 181 
An Old Love Letter . . Mrs. J. C. Ncal 181 
Don't Marry a Man "To Save Him." . . 181 
The Emerald Ring . . Letitia E. Landoti ] 82 
"O, Nancy, Wilt Thou Go with Me?" 

Thomas Percy 182 
Love Dissembled . William Shakespeare 183 
A Woman's Question, 

Adelaide A. Proctor 183 

The Knight's Toast 184 

Love is a Sickness . . . Samtiel Daniel 184 
Gray and Silver . . . . C. E. D. Phelps 184 
Let Not Woman E'er Complam 

Robert Burns 186 

My Own Dora K. Freaney 186 

Kissing Her Hair . . . A. C. Sivinburne 186 
When Thou Art Near Me, 

Lady Jane Scott 187 
Reuben and Rose .... Thomas Moore 188 

Love's Forgotten Promise 189 

Her Shadow Aubrey De Vere 189 

Found at Last . . . . Samuel M. Peck \%^ 
Waiting Near . . . . W. M. Thackeray 189 
The Miller's Daughter . Alfred Te^inyson 190 

My Choice William Broivne 190 

The Age of Wisdom . W. M. Thackeray 191 
Ah! What is Love? . . . Robert Greene 191 
Tell Me, My Heart, If this be Love 

George Lord Lyttelton 191 

Why 192 

He that Loves a Rosy Cheek, Thos. Carew 193 
The Shepherd's Resolution, 

George Wither 193 

My Sweethearts 193 

Love not Me for Comely Grace .... 193 
To Helen in a Huff . . . . N. P. Willis 193 

Jealousy E. Bulwer Lytton 194 

For Love's Sake . Elizabeth B. Brozvning 1 95 

Jenny's Kiss Leigh Hunt 195 

Satisfactory Chaperonage. . E. P. Butler 195 
Gilbert and Amethysta . Charles Mackay 195 

Love Thou the Best 196 

Love and Jealousy . . . Mary L Mattis 196 

To the End 196 

Legend of a Coquette 197 

Under the Mistletoe 

Martha E. Hallahan 198 

The Change Letitia E. Landon 198 

The Hunter's Serenade . . W. C. Bryant 198 

The Loveliness of Love 199 

My Dear and Only 'Lows, James Graham 199 

Wooing John B. L. Soule Idd 

Love is Enough . . Ella Wheeler Wilcox 200 
To an Absent Wife . . . G. D. Preiitice 200 



CONTENTS. 



IX 



TALES OF ADVENTURE AND ROMANCE. 



Page 

Massacre at Fort Dearborn, Chicago, 

1812 B. F. Taylor 201 

An Incident of the Fire at Hamburgh 

/. R. Lowell 201 
The Dying Warrior . . . Thomas Moore 202 
The Indian Boat .... Thomas Moore 202 
The Green Mountain Justice, Henry Reeves 203 

Willy-Nilly E. F. Brewtnall 204 

My Landlady Austin Dobson 205 

Knight Toggenburg. . . F. Von Schiller 206 
PhiUips of Pelhamville . Alex. Anderson 207 

The Famine H.W. Longfellow 207 

Conductor Bradley . . . . J. G. Whittier 208 

A Girl Heroine 209 

The Faithful Lovers 209 

The Morte Chapel . . Walter Baxendale 210 
One of the Six Hundred 211 



Page 
The Charge of the Light Brigade at Bala- 

klava Alfred Tetmyson 211 

River and Tide 212 

The Indian Girl . . . Letitia E. Landori 213 

In School Days f.G. Whittier 214 

The King and the Cottage,/(9/;« //. /"tfj'^^ 215 

Uncle Jo 215 

The 'Hcvf?,hofsT)tht,Helen Hunt Jackson 216 
Scott and The Veteran . Bayard Taylor 217 

Ben Fisher F D. Gage 218 

The Sea-King's Grave . . Rennell Rodd 219 
The Heathen Chinee .... Bret Harte 219 
Loved One was Not There . Elisa Cook 220 

The Guard's Story 220 

The Overland Train . . . Joaquin Miller 221 
The Bridge of Sighs . . . Thomas Hood 221 
Arabella and Sally Ann . . Paid Carson 222 



BALLADS, LEGENDS AND NATIONAL AIRS. 



The Damsel of Peru . . .W.C. Bryant 223 
The African Chief . . . . W. C. Bryant 224 
The Private of the Buffs, Sir F. H. Doyle 224 
A Maid of Normandy . George Weatherly 225 

Border Ballad Sir Walter Scott 225 

Sir Humphrey Gilbert, H. W. Lotigfellozv 226 
The Pilgrim Fathers . . . fohn Pierpont 227 
The Crazed Maiden . . . George Crabbe 227 
The Murdered Traveller . W. C. Bryant 228 

Leonidas George Crolv 229 

The Way of Wooing ! 229 

An Indian Story W.C.Bryant ITd 

Monterey C. F. Hoffman 230 

Gaspar Becerra. . . .H.W. Longfellotv 231 

Boadicea William Coivpcr 232 

Pericles and Aspasia . . . George Crolv 232 
Yarn of the " Nancy Bell," W. S. Gilbert 232 
The Indian Girl's Lament . W. C. Brvant 234 



236 
236 



Battle-Hymn of the Republic 

Julia Ward Howe 234 
The White-Footed Deer . W. C. Bryajit 235 
O Mother of a Mighty Race, W. C.Bryant 
"Once on a Time" .... Lillian Grey 
The Phantom City . . . Frances P. Mace 237 
Her Last Moment . . Margaret Craven 237 

Edward Gray Alfred Tennyson 239 

My Maryland .... fames R. Randall 239 
The Place Where Man Should Die 

Michael J. Barry 240 
The Death of Aliatar . . W. C. Bryant 240 
The Lake of the Dismal Swamp 

Thomas Moore 242 
The Star-Spangled 'Ea.nner,FrancisS.Key 243 

The German's Fatherland 243 

The Happiest Land . .H.W. Longfellow 243 
The Fair Helen 244 



HOPE AND MEMORY. 



A Retrospect George Crabbe 245 

The Long-Ago Lord Houghton 245 

Memories of Childhood . . . /. G. Watts 245 

Departed Joys H C. Kendall 246 

The Pleasures of Memory, 

Samuel Rogers 246 
Watch and Wait . . . . M. C. Gillington 246 
The Pleasures of Hope, Thomas Campbell 248 

The Pilgrim 249 

My Trundle Bed 249 

Remembrance Amie Hunter 250 

"Ember Picture" 250 



A Little Song of Hope . . R. F. Greene 250 

Memories J- G. Whittier 251 

The Unhappy Past . . Oliver Goldsmith 252 

Heavenward Lady Nairne 252 

Never Despair M. P. Tupper 252 

In Memoriam T. Whytehead 252 

Sun of the Soul J. Langhonie 252 

Eden Flowers H.N. Oxcnham 253 

The Visionary W. E. Spcyicer 253 

Sad Recollections .... Emily Bronte 254 
Light in Darkness . . Oliver Goldsmith 254 
Hope and Wisdom . . . . W. S. Landor 254 



CONTENTS. 



PATRIOTS AND HEROES. 



Page 
The Little Fireman . . . . J. F. Nicholls 255 
Andre's Request to Washington 

N. P. Willis 257 
Dying for Liberty .... Thomas Moore 257 
The Lone Grave on the Mountain 

C.G.Bcede 257 
I'm With You Once Again, Geo. P. Morris 258 
It is Great for Our Country to Die 

Jajnes G. Percival 258 
The Cuban Crisis . . . . L.S. Ainonson 259 

The Little Drummer 259 

The Poor Voter on Election Day 

/. G. Whittier 259 

A Brave Man Alexander Pope 2G0 

Patriotism and Freedom . Joatina Baillie 260 

Romero W. C. Bryant 260 

March of the Men of Harlech 261 

The Incorruptible Patriot . . E. C.Jones 263 
Redmond, in Rokeby Hall,5/r Walter Scottl^Z 
Courage Ensures Success . John Dryden 263 
Do or Die Lord Byron 264 



Page 



Hymn of the Moravian Nuns of Bethle- 
hem H.W. Longfelloiv 264 

Return of the Hillside Legion, Ethel Ly7t7i 264 

Heroes of the Mines . . . . J. E. Jones 265 

The Drummer Boy of Shiloh 267 

The Man with the Musket . H.S. Taylor 267 

Battle of Beal' an' Duine, Sir Walter Scott 268 

Forget Not the Field . . Thomas Moore 269 

Paul Revcre's Ride . . H. W. Longjellozv 270 

A Song of the North . . Elisabeth Doten 271 

The Ship of State .... (9. W. Holmes 273 

The Immortals 273 

The Ballot Box John Picrpont 273 

The Pride of Battery B . F. H. Gassaivay 274 
HarmodiusandAristogiton,Z(?;'rf'Z'r;/w/rt'« 
Andreas Hofer . . . . H. T. Tiickcrinan 

Lexington 0. W. Holmes 

The Sword of Bunker Hill 276 

The Wounded Soldier . . /. W. Watson Til 
The Old Grenadier's Story 

G. W. T/wrnbury 278 



274 
275 
276 



THE SWORD AND THE PLOW. 



A Deserter Mary A. Barr 

Song of the Greek Amazon, W. C. Bryant 
The Soldier's Widow. . . . N. P. Willis 
Home from the War . . . Tliomas JMoore 

The Golden Age 

Peace and the Sword . . E. PI. Bickerstetli 

The Sword Stephen H. Thayer 

Love and Peace J- G. Whittier 

The Turkish Camp .... Lord Byron 

The Battle-field W. C. Bryant 

The Regiment's Return . .E.J. Cutler 
The Battle-Song of Gustavus Adolphus 
Michael Altenbiirg 

Old Iron-Sides 0. W. Holmes 

Festive Peace . . . William Shakespeare 
The Soldier's Return . Robert Bloomfield 
Soldier, Rest ! Thy Warfare O'er 

Sir Walter Scott 

Ode to Peace William Tennent 

When Banners are Waving 



279 
280 
280 
280 
280 
281 
282 
282 
283 
284 
284 

285 
285 
285 
286 

286 

287 
287 



Before the Battle .... Thomas Aloore 288 
The Broadswords of Scotland, 

/. G. Lockhart 288 
Let the Sword Rust . H. 'W. Longfellow 288 
The Angels of Buena Vista,/. G. Whittier 289 
A Picture of Peace . . //. W. Longjellozv 290 
The Tyrant's Scourge . . . P. B. Shelley 290 
Death of the Warrior King, Charles Szvain 291 
The Flight of Xer.xes . MariaJ.Jezvsbnry 291 
After the Tempest .... W. C. Bryant 292 
Left on the Battle-field . Sarah T. Bolton 292 



Horrors of War. . 



E. H. Bickersteth 292 



The Indian Brave F. S. Smith 293 

After the Battle Thomas Moore 293 

Coming Peace . . Elizabeth B. Brozvning 293 
The Legend of Sir Joseph Wagstaff 

/. M. Wagstaff 294 
The Time of War . . . '. J. G. Whittier 296 

Civil War 296 

Fair Peace James Thomson 296 



RURAL SCENES. 



Farmer John J- P- Troivbridge 297 

The Village Boy J. G. Clarke 297 

Homesick for the Country 298 

Summer Woods .... W. H. Burleigh 298 

The Calf Plmbe Gary 299 

Sleigh Song G.W. Pettee 299 

Nightfall: A Picture . . . . A. B. Street 300 



The House on the Hill . . .E.J. Hall 

Agriculture James Thomson 

The Harvest Sheaf 

Dan's Wife Kate T. Woods 

The Robin Harrison Weir 

A Lay of Old Time . . . J G. Whittier 
A Little Song 



301 
302 
303 
304 
305 
305 
306 



CONTENTS. 



XI 



Page 

Our Skater Belle 306 

The Homestead Phoebe Gary 307 



A Life in the Country 
A Rural Picture . . . 
A Harvest Hymn . . 
My Little Brook . . 
Conrad in the City 



. C. S. Calverlcy 308 

. Joanna Baillic 309 

W. D. Gallagher 310 

Ma)y D. Branch 310 

Henry Davenport 311 



The Reapers T. B. Read 311 

The Drudge O.W. Holmes 312 

The Haymaker's Roundelay 312 

True Riches J. N. Barker Z\1 

The Country Maid . . . . W. G. Bryant 312 

Selling the Farm Beth' Day i\A. 

Town and Country . . William Gotuper 315 
A Harvest Thought 316 



Page 

The Pumpkin J. G. Whittier 316 

Blossom-time Mary E. Dodge 317 

Country Life 317 

The Old Mill R. H. Stoddard 318 

Back to the Farm W. T. Hale 318 

Two Pictures Marion Douglass 318 

The Haymakers George Lunt 319 

The Song of the Mowers 

W. H. Burleigh 

Country Life R.H.Stoddard Zm 

The Plough W. C. Bryant 320 

The Sacred Woods . . . R. W. Emerson 
The Mowers .... William Allingham 

The Cornfield James Tliomson 

My Heaven N. P. Willis 



319 



320 
321 
321 
321 



THE WORLD'S WORKERS. 



The Dreamer 323 

Press On Park Benjamin 323 

Do Something 324 

How Cyrus Laid the Cable 324 

Little by Little 324 

The Way to Win 324 

The Church Spider 326 

Giles and Mary . . . Robert Bloofnjield 326 
The Ship-builders . . . . J. G. Whittier 327 
The Shoemakers . . . .'j.G. Whittier 327 
Moral Cosmetics .... Horace Smith 328 

Advice 328 

A Work Song . . . . G. F. Armstrong 329 

The Happy Heart ...... 7! Decker 330 

Labor On 330 



Pluck and Prayer 330 

You and I Charles Mackay 331 

Don't Stand in the Way 331 

The Husbandman , . . . John Sterling 332 
The Poor Man's Labor . . J. P. Ciirran 333 
Working and Dreaming, Mrs. A. L. Lawrie 333 
To the Harvest Moon . . . H K. White 334 
The Unfinished Stocking, .S"i:^rc^/^ii^.i?6'//fc|« 334 

The Good Old Plough 335 

The Fishermen J. G. Whittier 335 

The Corn Song J. G. Whittier 336 

The Huskers J. G. Whittier 336 

The Lumbermen . . . . J. G. Whittier 337 
The Song of the Shirt . . Thomas Hood 339 
Advice 340 



BEAUTY AND GRANDEUR OF THE ALPS. 



Lake Leman (Geneva) in a Calm 

Lord Byron 34 1 
Lake Leman (Geneva) in a Storm 

Lord Byron 341 



The Battle of Morgarten 



Felicia D. Heinans 343 
The Boy of the Alps . . Thoinas Moore 344 



Sunrise in the Vale of Chamouny 

.S. T. Coleridge 346 

The Avalanche Lord Byron 347 

England and Switzerland 

William Wordsworth 347 
Arnold Winkelried . James Montgomery 348 
The Eagle's Shadow . Anna L. Barbauld 350 



CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 



The Doll's Wedding 353 

A Fishin' J.W. Riley 353 

Mattie's Wants and Wishes, G^r^r^ Gordon 353 
A Fellow's Mother . . . M. E. Songster 355 

The Little White Hearse 355 

Two Little Maidens .... Agnes Carr 355 

A Life Lesson 355 

Grandma's Angel 355 

The Little Boy's Lament 356 

Forgiveness 356 



Nutting Ljicy M. Blinn 357 

Naming the Baby 357 

Nan Cora S. Wheeler 357 

The Chicken's Mistake . . . Phoebe Gary 358 
The Merman's Song . . Matthnu Arnold 360 

Dreams 360 

Be True 360 

The New Year 361 

Little Jack Eugene J. Hall 361 

What Bessie Saw , . . . C. W. Branson 362 



XII 



CONTENTS. 



Page 
Little Red Riding Hood, LctitiaE. Laiidon 362 
The Highwayman. . . Allen G. Bigelow 364 

The Squirrel's Lesson 364 

Boys Wanted 365 

The Right Way .... Helen E. Broivn 365 
A Song of Golden Curls . F. L. Stanton 365 
The Pied Piper of Hamelin, /v^'/V. Brotvning 366 

The Clucking Hen 368 

One Thing at a Time 368 

Babyland George Cooper 368 

The Little Cup-bearer 369 

Do Right 369 

The Boy with the Little Tin Horn 

F. L. Stanton 369 

The Way to Succeed 369 

A Gentleman . . . Margaret E. Sangster 370 

Down in the Strawberry Bed 370 

One Little Act 370 

Six Years Old 370 

Hands and Lips 371 

Jewels of Winter 371 

The Bluebird 371 

The Man in the Moon 371 

A Rogue 371 

Grandpapa's Spectacles 371 

The Baby's Prayer . . Elizabeth S. Phelps 373 

A Child's Wish Clio Stanley 374 

The Children Charles Dickens 374 

The King and the Child . . . E.J. Hall 375 
A Boy's Song /. Hogg 376 

THE CROWN 

George Washington .... Eliza Cook 391 
Napoleon and the Sailor, Thomas Campbell 391 
The Portrait of Shakespeare, Ben Johnson 392 

Mary Morison Robert Burns 392 

Vanderbilt is Dead, Sherman D. Richardson 393 
George Whitefield . . . William Cozcpcr 393 
The Old Admiral . . . . E. C. Stcdman 393 

Robert Southey Lord Byron 394 

To Memory of Ben ]o\\nsonjohn Cleveland 395 
Henry Kirke White .... Lord Byron 395 
Italy's King . . . Elizabeth B. Broivning 395 

To the Memory of Hood 395 

General Grant Walt Whitman 397 

To J. G. Whittier on His Seventieth Birth- 
day Bayard Taylor 397 

On the Death of President Taylor 

R. T. Conrad 397 



Page 

The Little Darling 876 

The Boy's Complaint 377 

Lost Tommy Julia M. Dana 377 

The Little Boy who Ran Away 

Mrs. S. T. Perry 378 
The Flag on the School-house 

F. A. Tnpper 379 

A Girl John J.Piatt Zn% 

Cuddle Doon . . , Alexander Anderson 380 
The Dead Doll . . Margaret Vandergrift 380 
A Little Boy's Trouble . Carlotta Perry 381 
From " Babe Christabel," Gerald Massey 381 
What She Said . . . S. D. W. Gamwell 383 

Unsatisfied A. G. Waters 383 

A Pleasant Punishment 383 

Tabby Gray 384 

Babies and Kittens . . . . L. M. Hadley 384 
A Story of an Apple . . . Sydney Dayre 384 

The Unfinished Prayer 385 

Which Loved Best Fay Allison 386 

The Discontented Buttercup 

Sarah O.Jnvett 385 

OffforSlumberland 385 

Suppose Phccbe Gary 386 

The Dead Kitten .... Sydney Dayre 386 
Johnny's Opinion of Grandmothers 

E. L. Beers 387 

Only a Boy 389 

The Ill-natured Brier . . . Anna Bache 390 
The Boy and the Frog 390 

OF GENIUS. 

Cleopatra William Shakespeare 398 

To Cole, the Painter . . . W. C. Bryant 399 
The Seminole's Defiance . G. W. Patton 400 
Fate of Charles the Twelfth, Sainl. Johnson 400 

Wendell Phillips Nora Perry 400 

Robert Burns F. G. Hallcck 401 

The Princess Charlotte . . . Lord Byron 402 
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

F. F. Brozvne 405 
Randolph of Roanoke . . J. G. Whittier 405 

Napoleon Lord Byron 407 

Abraham Lincoln J- R- Lowell 407 

Lord Byron Robert Pollok 409 

Campbell W. M. Praed 410 

The 'D\ik&oi\Ne:\\mgton, Alfred Tennyson 410 
On a Bust of Dante . . . T. M. Parsons 413 
The Execution of Montrose, W. E. Aytoun 414 



THOUGHT 

The Village Weaver . . . G. S. Johnson 415 

A Jewel in Disguise 415 

A Dream J. W. Riley 416 

The Days of the Modern Belie ... .416 



AND SENTIMENT. 

The Fortunate Isles . 
It Never Comes Again 
The Bird that Soars . 



[oaquin Miller 416 
R. H. Stoddard 416 
. /. M. Bcntley 417 



Sometime H. Q. Blaisdell 417 



CONTENTS. 



xui 



An Old Vagabond . . . .J.B. O'Reilly 
The Pity of the Park Fountain, N. P. Willis 
Under the Leaves . . . Blanche Buswell 

The Water that Has Passed 

Courage Barry Corinvall 

The Fireside Nathaniel Cotton 

Roving Ned S. D. Richardson 

Victoria's Tears . Elizabeth B. Brozutiing- 
Dust from the Road of Life, 

Airs. Louis Bedford 

The Crown of Life J. P. Bailey 

The Chaperon 

Birds of Passage . . . H. IV. Longfellow 



Dimes and Dollars 
The Town Pump . 
Vastness of the Sea . 



. Henry Mills 
. G. IV. Bungay 
Barry Corinvall 



The Chimes of Amsterdam, 

Minnie E. Kenney 

Only Friends 

The Helping Hand 

Life's Winter James Thomson 

The Old Reaper 

Time's Flight . . . . . W. M. Praed 

To a Friend J- G. Whittier 

Ten Years Ago A. A. Watts 

The Angel of Patience . . J. G. Whittier 

Two Graves 

The Builders . . . . H. W. Longfelloiv 
A Good New Year ... William Lvle 



Page Page 

418 We'll go to Sea no More, Adelaide Corbett 432 

418 A Hand Pressure Curtis May ^2,'i 

418 Rock Me to Sleep . . Elizabeth A. Allen 433 

418 Snowdrops 434 

420 Christmas Eve W. B. Dunham 434 

420 Forgive Me Now 434 

420 In the Cage Sir W. Davenant 435 

422 Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard 

Thomas Gray 436 

423 The Foolish Violet ^ 437 

423 New Every Morning . . Susan Coolidge 437 

424 The Men of Old R. M. Milncs 438 

424 Suggestions Anna C. Starbuck 438 

425 Song of the Mystic A.J. Ryan 438 

425 The Singers H.W. Longfelloiv 439 

426 Sour Grapes 439 

A Useful Hint A. Hill 439 

426 Contentment 439 

42 f The New Morning . . Anna L.Barbaidd 440 

427 Old Letters Epes .Sargent 440 

428 The Old Year Lilian F. Mentor 440 

428 You Think I am Dead 441 

428 I Thank Thee, God ! For Weal and Woe 

429 Eliza Cook 441 

429 Crossing the Bar . . . Alfred Tc7tnyson 441 

430 The Friendship Flower . . R. M. Milncs 442 

431 Easy All 442 

431 Experience Alice M. Rollins 442 

431 Miranda William Shakespeare 442 



TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



The Driver of the Mail , F. E. Wcatherly 443 

Rover's Petition J. T. Fields 443 

Adieu to His Native Land . Lord Byron 444 

The Three Little Chairs 444 

Early Death .... Hartley Coleridge 444 

Kindness David Bates 444 

Think of Me Letitia E. Landon 445 

It Cannot Be Cy Warman 445 

A Widow Bird P. B. Shelley 446 

The Auctioneer's Gift . . . . S. W. Foss 446 
The Lost Leader . . . Robert Browning 447 
The Three Weepers . . Horatius Bonar 447 
Where Shall we Make Her Grave ? 

Felicia D. Hemans 447 

Under the Snow 448 

For All Who Die 449 

One Voice is Silent 449 

THE GATES 

Forgiveness 459 

Bethlehem Town Eugene Field 459 

The Lost Chord . . Adelaide A. Proctor 459 
" Please to Say Amen." 460 



454 



Weeping T. L. Beddoes 451 

Dirge in Cymbeline . . . W. S. Collins 451 

The Dead Bird Amv S. Wolff 

A Trifle 452 

Thy Long Day's Work . Alfred Teniiyson 453 
The Dirge of Imogen, William Shakespeare 453 
Oh, Snatched Away in Beauty's Bloom 

Lord Byron 
Lost and Found .... Hamilton Hide 454 

Over the Range J. H. Mills 455 

Solitude H. K. White 456 

The Voiceless 0. W. Holmes 456 

A Lament P. B. Shelley 456 

Song of the Silent Land, H. W. Longfellow 456 
The Mother's Dream . . William Barnes 456 
Dreamland .... Christina G. Rosetti 457 
Hope Oliver Goldsmith 458 

OF PEARL. 

The Old Man in the New Church 

./. H. Yates 460 
Sometime, Somewhere . Robert Brozvning 462 
Heavenward Sir Edwin Arnold 462 



XIV 



CONTENTS. 



Page 
A Little Dream 462 

A Christmas Carol . Christina G. Rosetti 463 

Truth Alice Cary 464 

In Answer Rose H. Thorpe 464 

Sometime 4G4 

The Sister's Evening Hymn 

Sarah Doudncy 465 
The Well of Loch Maree, /. G. Whittier 465 
The Christian's Warfare 

Charlotte E. Tonna 466 

The Magi's Gifts S. C. Kirk 466 

Angel Guardians . . . Beatrice Clayton 466 

What was His Creed ? 467 

Gettin' Religion Ida G. Morris 467 

Heaven Overarches . Christina G. Rosetti 467 

Mercy William Shakespeare 468 

Beyond 468 

The Quaker of the Olden Time 

/. G. Whittier 468 



Page 

Mary Magdalen W. C. Bryant 468 

The Fold 471 

The Golden Street . . . W. 0. Stoddard 471 

Empty Prayers 471 

Oh, for the Bridal ¥Qa.st, Charitie L.S)/tith 471 

Prayer and Potatoes 472 

The Sacrifice of Isaac . . . N. P. Willis 473 

Our Beloved Dead 473 

No Thorn Without a Rose 

F. R. Havcrgal 474 
The Outdoor Church .... Eva Keatte 474 

Rest llary T. Lathrop 475 

The Way T. B. Read 475 

Once Upon a Time . . . Louisa Biishnell 475 
Peace of Mind .... Oliver Goldsmith 475 
A Distant CdiVoX, Katharine Van Harlingen 476 
I Know Not the Hour of His Coming 

Ezra Hallock 476 
Blessed are the Dead . . . Simon Dach 476 



WIT AND WISDOM. 



Bill's in Trouble 477 

Jack, Who Sews His Buttons On 

Xwo Arthur CJ^pman 477 

W5& on a Tandem . . . Earl H. Eaton 478 

The Parrot and the Cat . Henry S. Leigh 478 

The Scientific Sluggard 478 

Reuben and Matilda 480 

The Old-Fashioned Laundress .... 480 

Spelling Reformer 480 

The Wedding Fee 480 

Cabin Philosophy 481 

Adam Never was a Boy, T. C. Harbaugh 482 

A School-day . . . . W. F. McSparran 483 

Three Stages 483 

The Baby in the Cars 486 

Hygiene 486 

Saint Anthony's Sermon to the Fishes 

A. A. Sancta Clara 487 

A Child's Reasoning - 487 

The Reason Why 487 

The Indian Chieftain 487 

Jane Jones Ben King 488 

Why Don't You Laugh ? . /. C. Challiss 488 

The Maiden's Last Farewell 489 

Whip-Poor-Will .... AL H. Rosenfeld 490 

Bakin and Greens 490 



Der Baby 490 

The Amorous Gold ¥\s\\,Hariy Grecnbank 492 

Spring Under Difficulties 492 

When Maria Jane is Mayor, William West 492 

The Girl for Me 493 

Sorrows of Werther . . W. M. Thackeray 493 

Thf Next Step 494 

Sambo's Philosophy . - . S. L. Dunbar 494 
American Aristocracy . . . /. G. Saxe 495 
De Ole Plantation Mule ...".... 495 
The Railroad Crossing . Hezekiah Strong 496 
The Punkin Frost . . . . B. F. Johnson 496 

Pat's Reply 497 

Deborah Lee ... 498 

What Mr. Robinson Thinks,/. A'. Lozvcll 499 

Wail of the Unappreciated 500 

Ask and Have ..... Samuel LoT.ier 600 
The Beauty and the Bee, Charles Mackay 50O 
Why Biddy and Pat Married 

R. H. Stoddard 500 
My Paroquet .... Emma H. Webb 501 
A Man by the Name of Bolus,/. W.Riley 503 

Salad Sydney Smith 503 

'Tis not Fine Feathers that Make Fine 

Birds 504 

Total Annihilation . . . Mary D. Baine 504 



Cyclopedia of Poetical Quotations with Subjects Arranged Alpha- 
betically 505 



CONTENTS. 



If 



CONTENTS OF PROSE. 



Page 

A Sunshiny Husband 30 

Home is Where the Heart is, Clias. Dickens 34 

The Sunny Side 39 

One of the Dearest Words 49 

The Great Horse-Shoe Curve 68 

Pleasure Derived from Nature, T. Dwight 76 
An Itahan Sunset . . Washington Allston 76 
Valley of the Hudson . George Bancroft 76 
The Vernal Ssason, Nathaniel Hawthorne 78 
Venice at Night . Jantcs Fenimore Cooper 79 
First Sight of the Valley of Mexico 

W. H. Prcscott 

Flowers Lydia M. Child 

Summer-time ....//. W. Longfelloiv 
Scenery of Lake Superior, H. R. Schoolcraft 

Mountains E. M. Morse 

Coral Treasures of the Sea 

Wreck of the Huron, T.Dc Witt Talmagc 
Rock and Sand Borers .... ... 

Sublimity of the Ocean 

. R. L. Stevenson 



. H. T. Tiickcrnian 

. R. W. Emerson 

Wasliinzton Ii"vinz 

Washington Innng 

C. M. Depezv 



Gone Like a Dream 

Beauty of Sea- Waves 

The Crowning Grace 

The Power of Love . 

The Love of a Mother, 

Broken Hearts . . . 

Andre and Hale . . . 

Beauty of Heroic Deeds, R. W. Emerson 

The Fathers of the Republic . E. Everett 

Patrick Henry ... 

The Little Mayflower . Ediuard Everett 
The "Constitution" and "Guerriere" . . 

Patriotism T. F. Meagher 

Warren and Bunker Hill 

The Homes of Freedom . Orville Dewey 
The Ravages of War . . Charles Sumner 

War's Destruction Robert Hall 

A Brighter Day 

Death in the Country . . /. K. Paulding 
A Charming Prospect . . Joseph Addison 
Peaceful Enjoyment . 
Children and Flowers 
Magnificent Poverty . 

Earning Capital James Wilson 

The Sacredness of Work, Thomas Carlyle 
The Nobility of Labor . . Orville Deivey 
The Monarch of Mountains, G.B. Cheever 
One of the Gems of Switzerland . . . . 
The Glacier of the Rhone, H. W. Longfellow 

A Famous Summit Lord Byron 

Mt. Pilatus 

Mt. Blanc Benjamin Silliman 



Lord Jeffrey 
H. W. Longfellow 
. . Victor Huzo 



84 
88 
91 
95 
99 
131 
132 
137 
143 
149 
156 
157 
167 
182 
192 
256 
262 
262 
265 
267 
272 
273 
275 
278 
282 
285 
285 
298 
299 
309 
321 
330 
332 
334 
339 
342 
342 
344 
344 
345 
345 



Professor Wilson 
. W. Allingham 
. W. M. Rossetti 



Avalanches of the Jungfrau 

The Fall of the Staubbach 

Lake Lucerne and William Tell's Chapel 
Sunrise Among the Alps . Wash. Allston 

Being a Boy CD. Warner 

What Baby Said 

The Little Match-Girl 

Hatis Christian Andersen 

Picking Quarrels John Neal 

As Quick as the Telephone 

Adams and Jefferson . . Edward Everett 
William Cullen Bryant 
Thomas Campbell . . 
Thomas Hood .... 

The Last Hours of Socrates 

William Penn George Bancroft 

Prescott's Method of Living, G.H. Ticknor 

Martin Luther Edivard Everett 

Copernicus .... . Edivard Everett 
Charles Lamb . . . , . William Hazlitt 
Henry Clay's Popularity . . James Parton 
John Howard .... Henry Davenport 
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow .... 
The Great Senators . . . Horace Greeley 
Nathaniel Hawthorne . . G. P. Lathrop 

Alfred Tennyson R. H. Hiitton 

Two Celebrated Astronomers 

Priscilla 

Lady Henry Somerset, Henry Davenport 

Glory Francis ]Vayland 

Sympathy 

True Nobility 

Faults Henry Ward Beecher 

Luck and Labor .... Ogden Hoffman 

National Hatred Rufus Choate 

Be in Earnest . . . . E. Bulwer Lytton 
The Old Man with Iron Shoes 

R. L. Stevenson 
The Perfect Woman . . . Gail Hamilton 
Fagin's Last NightAlive, Charles Dickens 
Death of the First Born . . /. G. Holland 
The Widow's Lighthouse, Herman Hooker 
A Sabbath in the Country, Cath. Sedgzvick 
An Ideal Citizen .... John Habberton 

The Cycling Academy 

Speech of Sergeant Buzfuz, Chas. Dickens 
Swallowing a Fly . . T.DeWittTalmage 
Candace's Opinions, Harriet Beecher Stowe 

Practical Philosophy 

Mark Twain's Watch . . . S. L. Clemens 
"Births. Mrs. Meek, of a Son." 

Clutrles Dickens 



Page 
347 

348 
351 
352 

358 
364 

372 
375 
382 
392 
398 
395 
396 
396 
398 
399 
401 
402 
402 
403 
403 
406 
406 
408 
409 
411 
412 
413 
417 
422 
424 
426 
433 
435 
439 

440 
442 
450 
457 
463 
470 
476 
484 
491 
493 
495 
497 
497 

501 



XVI 



CONTENTS. 



VOCAL AND INSTRUMENTAL MUSIC. 



Page 

A Stray Dove 546 

For You and Me 548 

The Angel's Greeting 550 

Dear Native Home 552 

My Mother's Bible 553 

The Three Jovial Huntsmen 554 

The First Letter 556 

A Mother's Song 558 

The Snow-White Rose 560 

I Love My Sailor Boy 562 

A Garden of Roses 564 

Tell Me a Story 566 

Heart Whispers 568 



Page 

The Double Loss 570 

Castles in the Air 572 

The Young Recruit 574 

Old Lace 576 

Steering 578 

What Power is This? 680 

Solitaire 682 

Wake for the Night is Flying 584 

The Storm 585 

Little Annie Rooney Waltz ...... 586 

Eventide 588 

Fond Hearts Must Part 590 

And Ye Shall Walk in Silk Attire ... 592 



Biographies of Authors whose Productions Appear in this Volume . 593 
Index of First Lines 610 







HOME, SWEET HOME: 

COMPRISING 

GKIVLS FOR THK FIRESIDE) 




FROM THE MOST CELEBRATED AUTHORS. 



THE LIGHT OF HOME. 



The joys of the old fireside, the memories that cling to the home circle, and 
the fondness with which the heart turns to the scenes and delights of youth, are 
all very strikingly expressed in this beautiful poem. 

Y boy, thou wilt dream the world is fair, 
And thy spirit will sigh to roam, 
And thou must go, but never when there 
Forget the light of home. 

Though pleasure may smile with a ray more bright. 

It dazzles to lead astray ; 
Like the meteor's flash 't will deepen the night, 

When thou treadest the lonely way. 

But the hearth of home has a constant flame. 

And pure as vestal fire ; 
'T will burn, 't will burn, for ever the same, 

For nature feeds the pyre. 

If from these joys thou art forced to part, 

As roams the wandering dove, 
Remember how true is the yearning heart 

That is warmed with a mother's love. 



The sea of ambition is tempest-tost. 
And thy hopes may vanish like foam ; 

But when sails are shivered, and rudder lost, 
Then look to the light of home : — 

And then like a star through the midnight cloud, 

Thou shalt see the beacon bright, 
For never, till shining on thy shroud, 

Can be quenched its holy light. 



The sun of fame? — it will gild the name, 

But the heart ne'er felt its ray ; 
And fashion's smiles that rich ones claim, 

Are but beams of a wintry day. 

And how cold and dim these beams must be, 

Should life's wretched wanderer come ! 
But, my boy, when the world is dark to thee. 
Then turn to the light of home. 

Sarah J. Hale. 
17 



18 



HOME, SWEET HOME. 



MY CHILD. 

I HAD a little daughter, 
And she was given to me, 
To lead me gently backward 
To the heavenly Fatlier's knee, 
That I, by the force of nature, 

Might in some dim wise divine 
The depth of his infinite jiatience 
To this wayward soul of mine. 



Till her outstretched hands smiled also, 

And I almost seemed to see 
The very heart of her mother 

Sending sun through her veins to me ! 

She had been with us scarce a twelvemonth. 

And it hardly seemed a day. 
When a troop of wandering angels 

Stole my little daughter away; 




fe* ^ *'^' , 



* i 



-% -\ 



I know not how others saw her, 

But to me she was wholly fair. 
And the light of the heaven she came from 

Still lingered and gleamed in her hair; 
For it was as wavy and golden. 

And as many changes took. 
As the shadows of sun-gilt ripples 

On the yellow bed of a brook. 

To what can I liken her smiling 
Upon me, her kneeling lover? 

How it leaped from her lips to her eyelids, 
And dimpled her wholly over, 



Or perhaps those heavenly Zincali 
But loosed the hampering strings ; 

And when they had opened her cage-dooFp 
My little bird used her wings. 

But they left in her stead a changeling, 

A little angel child, 
That seems like her bud in full blossom. 

And smiles as she never smiled ; 
When I wake in the morning, I see it 

Where she always used to lie. 
And I feel as weak as a violet 

Alone 'neath the awful sky: 

As weak, yet as trustful also ; 

For the whole year long I see 
All the wonders of faithful nature 

Still worked for the love of me ; 
Winds wander, and dews drip earthward. 

Rain falls, suns rise and set, 
Earth whirls, and all but to prosper 

A poor little violet. 



HOME, SWEET HOME. 



19 



This child is not mine as the first was — 

I cannot sing it to rest, 
I cannot lift it up fatherly 

And bless it upon my breast ; 
Yet it lies in my little one's cradle, 

And sits in my little one's chair. 
And the light of the heaven she's gone to 

Transfigures its golden hair. 

James Russell Lowell. 

A MOTHER'S LOVE. 

HAST thou sounded the depths of yonder sea, 
And counted the sands that under it be ? 
Hast thou measured the height of heaven 
above ? 
Then mayst thou mete out a mother's love. 

Hast thou talked with the blessed of leading on 
To the throne of God some wandering son ? 
Hast thou witnessed the angels' bright employ ? 
Then mayst thou speak of a mother's joy. 

Evening and morn hast thou watched the bee 
Go forth on her errand of industry ? 
The bee for himself hath gathered and toiled, 
But the mother's cares are all for her child. 

Hast thou gone with the traveller Thought afar — 
From jjole to pole, and from star to star ? 
Thou hast — but on ocean, earth, and sea, 
The heart of a mother has gone with thee. 

There is not a grand inspiring thought, 
There is not a truth by wisdom taught, 
There is not a feeling pure and high. 
That may not be read in a mother's eye. 

And ever, since earth began, that look 
Has been to the wise an open book. 
To win them back from the lore they prize 
To the holier love that edifies. 

There are teachings in earth, and sea, and air; 
The heavens the glory of God declare ; 
But louder than voice beneath or above, 
He is heard to speak through a mother's love. 

Emily Taylor. 

BY THE FIRE. 

SHE sat and mused by the driftwood fire. 
As the leaping flames flashed high and 
higher. 
And the phantoms of youth, as fair and bright. 
Grew for her gaze in the ruddy light. 
The blossoms she gathered in life's young days 
Wreathed and waved in the flickering blaze; 
And she laughed through a sunny mist of tears, 
Tiiat rose at the dream of her April years; 
And ever and aye the sudden rain. 
Plashed on the glittering window-pane. 



Sobered and saddened the pictures that showed 
As the driftwood logs to a red core glowed, 
And the fancied figures of older time 
Passed with the steadied step of their prime ; 
The daisies and snowdrops bloomed and died, 
Red roses and lilies stood side by side. 
While richer, and fuller, and deeper grew 
The lines of the pictures August drew ; 
And ever and aye the falling rain 
Streamed thick and fast on the window-pane. 

The driftwood died down into feathery ash, 

Where faintly and fitfully shone the flash ; 

Slowly and sadly her pulses beat. 

And soft was the fall, as of vanishing feet ; 

And lush and green as from guarded grave. 

She saw the grass of the valley wave ; 

And like echoes in ruins seemed to sigh 

The " wet west wind " that went wandering by, 

And caught the sweep of the sullen rain. 

And dashed it against the window-pane. 

THE LITTLE ARMCHAIR. 

NOBODY sits in the little armchair; 
It stands in a corner dim ; 
But a white-haired mother gazing there, 
And yearningly thinking of him. 
Sees through the dust of long ago 

The bloom of the boy's sweet face. 
As he rocks so merrily to and fro, 
With a laugh that cheers the place. 

Sometimes he holds a book in his hand. 

Sometimes a pencil and slate ; 
And the lesson is hard to understand. 

The figures to calculate ; 
But she sees the nod of the father's head, 

So proud of his little son. 
And she hears the words so often said, 

" No fear for our little one." 

They were wonderful days, the dear sweet days, 

When a child with sunny hair 
Was here to scold, to kiss, and to praise. 

At her knee in the little chair. 
She lost him back in her busy years. 

When the great world caught the man. 
And he strode away past hopes and fears 

To his place in the battle's van. 

But now and then in a wistful dream. 

Like a picture out of date, 
She sees a head with a golden gleam 

Bent over pencil and slate ; 
And she lives again the happy day, 

The day of her young life's spring, 
When the small armchair stood just in the way. 

The centre of everything. 




20 



BEAUTIFUL FLOWERS FOR HOME DECORATION. 



HOME, SWEET HOME. 
AN OLD SWEETHEART OF MINE. 



21 



The tender pathos and beauty of this poem strike a respon- 
sive chord in the hearts of all who appreciate the domestic 
affections. It is one of Mr. Riley's happiest efforts. 



Where the vines were ever fruiti'ul, and the weather 
ever fine, 

And the birds were ever singing lor that old sweet- 
heart of mine. 



AS one who cons at eve- 
ning o'er the albtim 
all alone 
And muses on the faces of the 
friends that he has known, 
So I turn tlie leaves of fancy 

till in shadowy design 
I find the smiling features of 
an old swectlieart of mine. 



'Tis a fragrant retrospection — for , 

the loving hearts that start 
Into being are like perfumes from ^f ^ 

the blossoins of the heart ; 
And to dream the old dreams over 

is a luxury divine, 
When my trtiant fancy wanders with that old 

sweetheart of mine. 

Though I hear, beneath my stud\ , like a 

fluttering of wings, 
The voices of my children and the mother as 

she sings, 
I feel no twinge of conscience to d<.n\ me 

any theme 
When care has cast her anchor in the harbor 

of a dream. 

In fact, to speak i;i earnest, I belie\e it adds 

a charm 
To spice the good a trifle with a little dust of 

harm — 
For I find an extra flavor in memor) 's mellow 

vine 
That makes me drink the deeper to tliat old 

sweetheart of mine. 

I can see the pink sun-bonnet and the little check- 
ered dress 

She wore when first I kissed her and she answered 
the caress 

With the written declaration that " as surely as the 
vine 

Grew 'round the stump, she loved me " — that old 
sweetheart of mine. 




And again I feel the pressure of her slender little When I should be her lover fore\er and a 



hand 



dav. 



As we used to talk together of the future we had And she my faithful sweetheart till the golden hair 

planned— " ! '^vas gray ; 

When I should be a poet, and with nothing else And we should be so happy that when cither's lips 



to do 

But to write the tender verses that she set the 
music to. 

When we should live together in a cosy little cot. 
Hid in a nest of roses, with a tiny garden spot ; 



were dumb 

They should not smile in heaven till the other's 
kiss had come. 

But. ah ! my dream is broken by a step upon the 
stair. 



22 



HOME, SWEET HOME. 



And the door is softly opened, and — my wife is 

standing there ; 
Yet with eagerness and rapture all my visions I 

resign 
To meet the living presence of that old sweetheart 

of mine. 

James Whitcomb Riley. 

ALONE IN THE HOUSE. 

The following beautiful lines were written in response to 
repeated requests for something from tlie pen of Mrs. Wil- 
lard, mother of Miss Frances E. Willard. They give a pic- 
ture of sacrifice made with the utmost cheerfulness, such as 
is not often witnessed, even in the history of reformers, and 
are typical of the exemplary character of their author. 



Is this, where I think of the rush 
Of childhood's swift feet at the portal, 
And of childhood's sweet spirit of trust! 

All alone in the house ! all alone ! 

On this generous festival day ; 
Oh ! where have my girls gone this New Year's, 

Who made the house merry as May ? 
One went at the call of death's angel, 

And one, duty took her away. 

Oh, how will it be in that future? 

I do wonder how it will be. 
When we all meet together in heaven — 

Husband, son, gentle daughters and me. 




W 



ALONE in the house ! who would dream it ! 
Or think that it ever could be — 
When my babes thrilled the soft air with 
love notes 
That had meaning for no one but me. 

Alone in the house ! who would dream it ! 

Or think that it ever could be, 
When they came from their small garden castle, 

Down under their dear maple tree. 
Or from graves of their pets and their kittens, 

With grief it would pain you to see. 

Then with brows looking weary from lessons, 

Pored over with earnestness rare. 
And then, from a thoughtful retirement. 

With solitude's first blanch of care. 

A house of stark silence and stillness 



Who w ill bring us togetlier in glory, 

When the long separation is done ? 
'Tis the Friend who will never forsake us, 

And who never has left us alone ; 
Then fearless we'll enter to-morrow, 

'Twill be one day nearer our home. 

But when shall we reach there, I wonder. 
Where father, brother, and sister now rest. 

To dwell with the Christ who redeemed us, 
In the beautiful land of the blest ? 

Mary Thompson Willard. 

THE OLD FRIENDS. 

THERE is no friend like the old friend who 
has shared our morning days, 
No greeting like his welcome, no homage 
like his praise ; 
Fame is the scentless sunflower, with gaudy crown 

of gold. 
But friendship is the breathing rose, with sweets in 
every fold. 

O. W. Holmes. 



HOME, SWEET HOME. 



23 



CHARITY. 

BLEST Charity ! the grace long-suffering, kind, 
Which envies not, has no self-vauntingmiud. 
Is not puffed up, makes no unseemly sliow. 
Seeks not her own, to provocation slow. 
No evil thinks, in no unrighteous choice 
Takes pleasure, doth in truth rejoice, 
Hides all things, still believes, and hopes the best, 
All things endures, averse to all contest. 
Tongues, knowledge, prophecy, shall sink away, 



And a sign and a seal of our reverence, too. 
Had a part in our creed, when that old ring was 

new, 
When a slender, light hand was upraised to our lips, 
And our kisses were pressed on its slim finger tips. 
For that circle of gold seemed a hallowing pledge 
Of a homage profounder than words dare allege. 

But the metal that's purest wears quickest away. 
And that old wedding ring has grown thinner to- 
day; 




At the first glance of beatific ray ; 
Then charity its element shall gain, 
And with the God of love eternal reign. 

r.iSHop Ken. 

THAT CIRCLE OF GOLD. 

WHAT a symbol of love is that circle of gold, 
By the token of which our devotion was 
told ! 
How our youthful affection shines out, as it seems, 
In the light of the romance around it that gleams ; 
And it knows no beginning or ending, or why 
Its continuing course should not run till we die. 



Yet the hand which it graced graces it in its turn 
With a magic the alchemist vainly would learn. 
For sweet charity's touch has so filled it with gold 
That that hand never lacked to the hungry and cold. 

And the summers may come, and the summers may 

go, 
And the winters may whiten the hair with their 

snow ; 
Still the hiind which a lover delighted to kiss 
Wears the signet of lialf of a century's bliss. 
And no earnest of joy in the heavens above 
Is more sure than that ring and its cycle of love. 

\V. D. Ellwanger. 



24 



HOME, SWEET HOME. 



T 



OLD CHRISTMAS. 

HERE'S a box in the cellar, a bundle up- 
stairs. 
And the family cherubs are whispering in 
pairs. 

It's all about Christmas, 
I know it is Christmas, 
Old Christmas once more. 



When I venture to enter, where laughter is rife, 



Amid the city's constant din, 
A man who round the world has been, 
Who, 'mid the tumult and the throng. 
Is thinking, thinking all day long : 
" Oh ! could I only tread once more 
The field-path to the farmhouse door, 
The old, green meadow could I see. 

How happy, happy, happy, 
How happy I should be ! " 

DEAREST LOVE! BELIEVE ME. 




D 



"You cannot come in," cries the voice of my wife. 
'Tis the sweet sign of Christmas, 
The coming of Christmas, 
Old Christmas once more. 

When I open a closet to look for my hat 
I find — but no matter it is not the cat. 

It is something for Christmas, 
A comfort for Christmas, 
Old Christmas once more. 

TWO PICTURES. 

AN old farmhouse, with meadows wide, 
And sweet with clover on each side ; 
A bright-eyed boy, who looks from out 
The door with woodbine wreathed about. 
And wishes his one thought all day : 
" Oh ! if I could but fly away 
From this dull spot the world to see. 

How happy, happy, happy. 
How happy I should be !" 



EAREST love ! believe me, 
Though all else depart, 
Naught shall e'er deceive thee 
In this faithful heart : 
Beauty may be blighted, 
Youth must pass away, 
But the vows we plighted 
Ne'er shall know decay. 

Tempests may assail us 

From affliction's coast. 
Fortune's breeze may fail us 

When we need it most ; 
Fairest hopes may perish. 

Firmest friends may change j 
But the love we cherish 

Nothing shall estrange. 

Dreams of fame and grandeur 

End in bitter tears ; 
Love grows only fonder 
With the lapse of years : 
. ,,. Time, and change, and trouble,. 

Weaker ties unbind. 
But the bands redouble 
True affection twined. 

Thomas Pringle. 

TWILIGHT. 

SING to me, dear, of the twilight time, 
Shadowy, tender and gray — 
Rosy the West, 
Nature at rest ; 
Slow rising mist, and a far-away chime — 
A song for the ending of day. 

Sing me a song of the autumn days, 
Mellowed and russet and sere — 
Summer heat done. 
Frost-time begun ; 
Sun shining chill through the violet haze — 
A song for the close of the year. 

Croon to me, dear, of the fireside years. 
After the toiling and strife — 

Strength ebbing fast. 
Heart tempests past ; 
We two at rest, beyond doubting and fears — 
A song for the waning of life. 

CoRRiNE M. Rockwell.. 



HOME, SWEET HOME. 



25 



YOU took me, Henry, when a girl, into your 
home and heart. 
To bear in all your after-fate a fond and 
faithful part ; 
And tell me, have I ever tried that duty to forego, 
Or pined there was not joy for me when you were 
sunk in woe ? 



No, I would rather share your grief than other 

people's glee ; 
For though you're nothing to the world, you're 

all the world to me. 
You make a palace of my shed, this rough-hewn 

bench a throne ; 
There's sunlight for me in your smile, and music 

in your tone. 

I look upon you when you sleep — my eyes with 

tears grow dim ; 
I cry, " O ! Parent of the poor, look down from 

heaven on him ! 
Behold him toil, from day to day, exhausting 

strength and soul ; 
Look down in mercy on him, Lord, for thou canst 

make him whole !" 



A WIFE'S APPEAL TO HER HUSBAND. 

There's only one return I crave — I may not need 

it long — 
And it may soothe thee when I'm where the 

wretched feel no wrong. 
I ask not for a kinder tone, for thou wert ever 

kind ; 
I ask not for less frugal fare — my fare I do not 

mind. 



I ask not for more gay attire — if such as I have got 
Suffice to make me fair to thee, for more I murmur 

not ; 
But I would ask some share of hours that you in 

toil bestow ; 
Of knowledge that you prize so much, may I not 

something know? 

Subtract from meetings amongst men each eve an 

hour for me ; 
Make me companion for your soul, as I may 

surely be ; 
If you will read, I'll sit and work; then think, 

when you're away, 
Less tedious I shall find the time, dear Henry, of 

your stay. 

A meet companion soon I'll be for 

studious hours, 
And teacher of those little ones you call your 

cottage-flowers : 
And if we be not rich and great, we may be wise 

and kind ; 
And as my heart can warm your heart, so may my 
I mind your mind. 

GRANDMOTHER'S WORK. 

P in the garret the grandmother sits, And these tiny shreds of old soft lace 



And when, at last, relieving sleep has on my eye- 
lids smiled, 

How oft are they forbid to close in slumber bv my 
child ! 

I take the little murmurer that spoils my span of 
rest, 

And feel it is a part of thee I hold upon my 
breast. 



your 



U Under the rafters dark and low, 

Sorting over the faded bits 
Of woolen, and silk, and calico; 
And the children wonder, as peeping in, 
They watch the old lady her task begin. 
Why the aged hands, so wrinkled and thin, 
Should tremble and be so slow. 

Run away, ye careless ones, to your play ! 

Let her muse for awhile alone ! 
These faded remnants once bright and gay, 

Have a history — every one ; 
And tliis is the reason the grand-dame sighs, 
And the blinding tears that unbidden rise, 
She pa'ised to wipe from those faded eyes, 

Whose weeping, she thought, was done. 

This silk, whose color she scarce can tell, 

Laid away with such pride and care, 
Was the bridal robe — slie remembers well — 

Of her darling so ]iure and fair. 
And she hastily folds it out of sight, 
For she knows full well, in that land of light. 
Unfading and spotless, clean and white, 
Are the garments the ransomed wear. 



Which the years have turned so gray, 
How they bring before her the baby face. 

That within these ruffles lay! 
And the heart leaps over the days that remain, 
Till she clasps in her arms her babv again. 
While her withered heart feels a yearning pain 

For the little one called away. 

And now she has found a scrap of blue, 

And she brushes away a tear 
As she thinks of her soldier son so true 

To his country — to her so dear; 
A bit of the blue her brave boy wore 
When he said "good-bye" at the cottage door; 
She listens in vain, on the oaken floor, 

For the footsteps she loved to hear. 

And thus she labors and thinks and dreams. 

While memories fast arise, 
Till the fading light of evening seems 

To come with swift surprise; 
And the children that night in the chimney nook. 
Looking up at length from their picture book, 
See the folded hands, and the shadowy look 

Of tears in her kindly eves. 

Mrs. C. E Hewitt. 



26 



HOME, SWEET HOME. 



AN IDYL OF THE KITCHEN. 

IN brown holland apron she stood in the kitchen, 
Her sleeves were rolled up, and her cheeks all 
aglow ; 
Her hair was coiled neatly ; when I, indiscreetly, 
Stood watching while Nancy was kneading the 
dough. 

Now, who could be neater, or brighter, or sweeter, 
Or who hum a song so delightfully low. 



THE OPEN WINDOW. 

THE old house b\ the lindens 
Stood silent in the shade, 
And on the gravelled pathway 
The light and shadow played. 

I saw the nursery windows 
Wide open to the air ; 

But the faces of the children, 
They were no longer there. 




Or who look so slender, so graceful, so tender, 
As Nancy, sweet Nancy, while kneading the 
dough ? 

How deftly she pressed it, and squeezed it, 
caressed it. 
And twisted and turned it, now quick and now 
slow, 
Ah, me, but that madness I've paid for in sadness ! 
'Twas my heart she was kneading as well as the 
dough. 

At last, when she turned for her pan to the dresser, 
She saw me and blushed, and said shyly, " Please 

Or my bread I'll be spoiling in spite of my toiling. 
If you stand here and watch while I'm kneading 
the dough." 

I begged for permission to stay. She'd not listen ; 

The sweet little tyrant said, " No, sir ! no ! no !" 
Yet when I had vanished on being thus banished. 

My heart stayed with Nancy while kneading the 
dough. 

I'm dreaming, sweet Nancy, and see you in fancy, 
Your heart, love, has softened, and pitied my woe, 

And we, dear, are rich in a dainty wee kitchen 
Where Nancy, my Nancy, stands kneading the 
dough. John A. Fraser, Jr. 



The birds sang in the branches, 

With sweet, familiar tone ; 
But the voices of the children 

Will be heard in dreams alone ! 

And the boy that walked beside me. 

He could not understand 
Why closer in mine, ah ! closer, 

I pressed his warm, soft hand ! 

H. W. Longfellow. 



WHERE THERE'S ONE TO LOVE. 



H 



OME'S not merely four square walls. 

Though with pictures hung and gilded ; 
Home is where affection calls. 
Filled with shrines the heart hath builded ! 
Home ! go watch the faithful dove, 

Sailing 'neath the heaven above us; 
Home is where there's one to love ! 
Home is where there's one to love us ! 

Home's not merely roof and room. 

It needs something to endear it ; 
Home is where the heart can bloom, 

Where there's some kind lip to cheer it ! 
What is home with none to meet, 

None to welcome, none to greet us? 
Home is sweet — and only sweet — 

When there's one we love to meet us ! 

Charles Swain. 



HOME, SWEET HOME. 



27 



THE PROUDEST LADY. 



THE queen is proud on her throne, 
And proud are her maids so fine ; 
But the proudest lady that ever was known 
Is a little lady of mine. 
And oh ! she flouts me, she flouts me, 
And spurns, and scorns, and scouts me, 
Though I drop on my knee and sue for grace, 
And beg, and beseech with the saddest face, 
Still ever the same she doubts me. 

She is seven by the calendar — 
A lily's almost as tall, 



What petulant, pert grimaces ! 
Why, the very pony prances and winks, 
And tosses his head, and plainly thinks 
He may ape her airs and graces. 

But at times, like a pleasant tune, 
A sweeter mood o'ertakes her; 
Oh ! then she's sunny as skies of June, 
And all her pride forsakes her. 
Oh ! she dances round me so fairly ! 
Oh ! her laugh rings out so rarely ! 
Oh ! she coaxes and nestles, and purrs and pries 














But oh ! this little lady's by far 
The proudest lady of all. 
It's her sport and pleasure to flout me, 
To spurn, and scorn, and scout me; 
But ah ! I've a notion it's nought but play, 
And that, say what she will and feign what she 

may, 
She can't well do without me ! 

When she rides on her nag away. 

By park, and road, and river, 
In a little hat so jaunty and gay, 

Oh ! then she's prouder than ever ! 
And oh ! what faces, what faces ! 



In my puzzled face with her two great eyes. 
And says, " I love you dearly !" 

Oh ! the queen is jsroud on her throne, 

And proud are her maids so fine ; 
But the proudest lady that ever was known 
Is this little lady of mine. 
Good lack ! she flouts me, she flouts me. 
And spurns, and scorns, and scouts me ; 
But ah ! I've a notion its nought but play. 
And that, say what she will and feign what she 

may, 
She can't well do 



ijithout me ! 

Thomas Westwood. 



THE HOME=COMINQ. 



THEY gain by twilight's hour their lonely isle. 
To them the very rocks appear to smile ; 
The haven hums with many a cheering 
sound. 
The beacons blaze their wonted stations round. 
The boats are darting o'er the curly bay. 
And sportive dolphins bend them through the 
spray. 



Even the hoarse sea-bird's shrill, discordant shriek, 
Greets like the welcome of his tuneless beak ! 
Beneath each lamp that through its lattice gleams. 
Their fancy paints the friends that trim the 

beams. 
Oh ! what can sanctify the joys of home, 
Like hope's gay glance from ocean's troubled 

foam. Lord Byron. 



28 



HOME, SWEET HOME. 



T 



THE FIRST SMILE. 

EARS from the birth of doom must be 
Of the sin-born — but wait awhile, 

Young mother, and thine eye shall see 
The dauninc; of the first soft smile. 




HOMEWARD BOUND. 

It comes in slumber, gently steals 

O'er the i'air cheek, as light on dew; 

Some inward joy that smile reveals ; 

Sit by, and muse ; such dreams are true. 

Closed eyelids, limbs supine, and breath 
So still, you scarce can calm the doubt 

If life can be so like to death — 
'Tis life, but all of earth shut out. 



'Tis perfect peace; yet all the while 
O'er marble brow, and dimpled chin 

Mantles and glows that radiant smile. 
Noting the spirit stirred within. 

Oh dim to this the flashing ray, 

Though dear as life to moth- 
er's heart, 
From waking smiles, that later 
play ; 
In these earth claims the 
larger part. 

'Tis childish sport, or frolic 
mirth, 
Or the fond mother's blame- 
less guile, 
Or glittering toy — some gaud 
of earth, 
That stirs him to that merry 
smile. 

Or if in pensive wise it creep. 
With gradual light and 
soberer grace. 
Yet shades of earthl\- sorrow 
sleep. 
Still sleep upon his beau- 
teous face. 

But did the smile disclose a 
dream 
Of bliss that had been his 
before ? 
Was it from heaven's deep sea 
a gleam 
Not faded quite on earth's 
dim shore ? 

Or told some angel from above, 

Of glories to be his at last, 
The sunset, crowning hours of 
love — 
His labors done — his perils 
past? 

Blest smile ! — so let me live 
my day, 
That when my latest sun 
shall set. 
That smile, reviving once, may 
play. 

And gild my dying features 
yet : 

That smile to cheer the mourners round 
With hope of human sins forgiven ; 

Token of earthly ties unbound. 

Of heart intent on opening heaven. 

Fair distant land: could mortal eyes 

But half its joys explore, 
How would our spirits long to rise, 

And dwell on earth no more ! 



HOME, SWEET HOME. 



29 



THE TWO GATES. 

IT is many a year ago, dear — 
Ah, me ! how the time has fled — 
Since we met on a morn in summer, 
And never a word was said. 
It is true that our eyes encountered, 
Ordained by a kindly fate; 
As I wandered along the roadway. 
You stood at the garden gate — 
You stood at the garden gate ! 

As the brooklet will seek the sea, dear. 

As flowers ever hail the sun. 

As the songsters all crave for springtime. 

Our lives yearned to be as one. 

You remember how bells were ringing, 

And hearts were with joy elate. 

When on starting on life's twin journey, 

We passed through the same old gate — 

We passed through the same old gate ! 



The stranger's foot shall cross the floor 
Of old where I was wont to go ! 

house that like a little ghost 

Calls to me through the night and rain, 

1 know not if 1 love you most 

For all the joy or all the pain. 

For hours in which my joy lay dead. 
For hours in which all heaven I knew — 

Only my life, when all is said, 

Leaves an immortal past with you. 

THE JOYS OF HOME. 

"^ WEET are the joys of home, 
^ And pure as sweet; for they, 

-^ Like dews of morn and evening, come 
To wake and close the day. 

The world hath its delights, 
And its delusions too ; 




Now that the silvery strands have come, dear. 

And taken the place of gold. 

Do we ever regret that summer 

When love's sweet tale was told ? 

Ah, no ! for happiness, darling, 

Is ours, though in life 'tis late. 

And with us 'twill ever linger. 

Till close is the heavenly gate — 

Till close is the heavenly gate ! 



T 



THE EMPTY HOUSE. 

O think the moonlight shines to-night 
In the dismantled rooms that were 
Love's own, the moonlight, cold and white. 
Upon the desolate walls and bare I 



To think the dawn shall rise and flood 
The empty house that was love's own, 

Wherein love's hours were warm and good — 
Wherein love's heart hung heavy as stone ! 

To think I shall come there no more 
To the familiar place, to know 



But home to calmer bliss invites. 
More tranquil and more true. 

The mountain flood is strong, 

But fearful in its pride ; 
While gently rolls the stream along 

The peaceful valley's side. 

Life's charities, like light. 

Spread smilingly afar ; 
But stars approached, become more bright, 

And home is life's own star 

The pilgrim's step in vain 

Seeks Eden's sacred ground I 
But in home's holy joys again 

An Eden may be found. 

A glance of heaven to see. 

To none on earth is given ; 
And yet a happy family 

Is but an earlier heaven. 

John Bowrino. 



30 



HOME, SWEET HOME. 



SHE GREW IN SUN AND SHOWER. 



T 



HREE years she grew in sun and shower, 
Then nature said, "A loveher flower 
On earth was never sown ; 

This child I to myself will take, 

She shall be mine, and I will make 

A lady of my own. 

Myself will to my darling be 

Both law and impulse, and with me 

The girl, in rock and plain. 

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, 

Shall feel an ever-seeing power 

To kindle or restrain. 



" She shall be sportive as the fawn, 
That wild with glee across the lawn, 
Or up the mountain springs ; 
And hers shall be the breathing palm 




And hers the silence and the calm 
Of mute, insensate things. 

" The floating clouds their state shall lend 
To her — for her the willow bend ; 
Nor shall she fail to see 
Even in the motions of the storm, 
Grace that shall mould the maiden's form 
By silent sympathy. 

" The stars of midnight shall be dear 
To her, and she shall lean her ear 
In many a secret place ; 
Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 
And beauty born of murmuring sound, 
Shall pass into her face. 

" And vital feelings of delight 
Shall rear her form to stately height ; 
Her virgin bosom swell. 
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give. 
While she and I together live 
Here in this happy dell." 



Thus nature spake — the work was done — 

How soon my Lucy's race was run ! 

She died, and left to me 

This heath, this calm and quiet scene, 

The memory of what has been. 

And never more will be. 

William Wordsworth. 

A SUNSHINY HUSBAND. 

A SUNSHINY husband makes a merry, beau- 
tiful home, worth having, worth working 
for. If a man is breezy, cheery, consider- 
ate, and sympathetic, his wife sings in her heart 
over her puddings and her mending basket, counts 
the hours until he returns at night, and renews her 
youth in the security she feels of his approbation 

and admiration. You 
^^ .' may think it weak 

or childish if you 
please, but it is the 
admired wife who 
hears words of praise 
and receives smiles 
of recommendations, 
who is capable, dis- 
creet, and executive. 
I have seen a timid, 
modest, self-distrust- 
ing little body fairly 
bloom into strong, 
self- reliant woman- 
hood, under the tonic 
of the cordial of com- 
panionship with a 
husband who really 
went out of the way 
to find occasion for 
showing her how fully 
he trusted her judg- 
ment, and how ten- 
derly he deferred to her opinion and taste. 

In home life there should be no jar, no striving 
for place, no insisting on prerogatives, no division 
of interest. The husband and the wife are each 
the complement of the other. It is just as much 
his duty to be cheerful, as it is hers to be pstient; 
his right to bring joy into the door, as it is hers to 
keep in order and beautify the pleasant interior. 
A family where the daily walk of the father makes 
glad the hearts of those around him, is constantly 
blessed with a heavenly benediction. 

TRUE CONTENTMENT. 

One honest John Fletcher, a hedger and ditcher. 
Although he was poor didn't want to be richer; 
All petty vexation in him was prevented 
By the fortunate habit of being contented. 

Henry S. Kent, 



HOME, SWEET HOME. 



31 



OUR FIRST=BORN. 



O HAPPY husband ! happy wife ! 
The rarest blessing Heaven drops down. 
The sweetest blossom in spring s crown. 
Starts in the furrows of your life ! 
God ! what a towering height ye win,^^ 
Who cry, "Lo, my beloved child ! " 
And, life on life sublimely piled, 
Ye touch the heavens and peep within ! 



The mother moves with queenlier tread : 
Proud swell the globes of ripe delight 
Above her heart, so warm and white, 

A pillow for the baby-head ! 

Their natures deepen, well-like, clear. 
Till God's eternal stars are seen, 
Forever shining and serene. 

By eyes anointed beauty's seer. 




Look how a star of glory swims 
Down aching silence of space. 
Flushing the darkness till its face 

With beating heart of light o'erbrims ! 

So brightening came Babe Christabel, 
To touch the earth with fresh romance. 
And light a mother's countenance 

With looking on her miracle. 

With hands so flower-like, soft, and fair. 
She caught at life, with words as sweet 
As first spring violets, and feet 

As fairy-light as feet of air. 

The father, down in toil's murk mine, 
Turns to his wealthy world above. 
Its radiance, and its home of love ; 

And litchts his life like sun-struck wine. 



A sense of glory all things took, — 

The red rose-heart of dawn would blow, 
And sundown's sumptuous pictures show 

Babe-cherubs wearing their babe's look ! 

And round their peerless one they clung, 
Like bees about a flower's wine-cup ; 
New thoughts and feelings blossomed up. 

And hearts for very fullness sung. 

Of what their budding babe shall grow, 
When the maid crimsons into wife, 
And crowns the summit of some life, 

Like Phosphor, with morn on its brow! 

And they should bless her for a bride, 
Who, like a splendid saint alit 
In some heart's seventh heaven, should sit, 

As now in theirs, all glorified ! 



32 



HOME, SWEET HOME. 



But O ! 'twas all too white a brow 
To flush with passion that doth fire 
With Hymen's torch its own death-pyre- 

So pure her heart was beating now ! 



And thus they built their castles brave 
In fairy lands of gorgeous cloud ; 
They never saw a little white shroud, 

Nor guessed how flowers may mask the grave. 

Gerald Massev. 



THE MORTGAGE ON THE FARM. 



7'T^I 



'IS gone at last, and I am glad ; it stayed a 
fearful while, 
And when the world was light and gay, 
I could not even smile; 
It stood before me like a giant, outstretched its 

iron arm ; 
No matter where I looked, I saw the mortgage on 
the farm. 

I'll tell you how it happened, for I want the world 

to know 
How glad I am this winter day whilst earth is 

white with snow ; 
I'm just as happy as a lark. No cause for rude 

alarm 
Confronts us now, for lifted is the mortgage on 

the farm. 

The children they were growing up, and they were 

smart and trim. 
To some big college in the East we'd sent our 

youngest, Jim ; 
And every time he wrote us, at the bottom of his 

screed. 
He tacked some Latin fol de-rol which none of us 

could read. 

The girls they ran to music, and to painting, and 
to rh) mes. 

They said the house was out of style and far be- 
hind the times; 

They suddenly diskivered that it didn't keep 'em 
warm — 

Another step of course towards a mortgage on the 
farm. 

We took a cranky notion, Hannah Jane and me 

one day, 
While we were coming home from town, a-talking 

all the way. 
The old house wasn't big enough for us, although 

for years 
Beneath its humble roof we'd shared each other's 

joys and tears. 

We built it o'er and when 'twas done, I wish you 
could have seen it. 



I bought a fine planner and it shortened still the 

pile. 
But, then, it pleased the children, and they banged 

it all the while ; 
No matter what they played for me, their music 

had no charm. 
For every tune said plainly : " There's a mortgage 

on the farm ! ' ' 

I worked from morn till eve, and toiled as often 
toils the slave 

To meet that grisly interest ; I tried hard to be 
brave. 

And oft when I came home at night with tired 
brain and arm, 

The chickens hung their heads, they felt the mort- 
gage on the farm. 

But we saved a penny now and then, we laid them 

in a row ; 
The girls they played the same old tunes, and let 

the new ones go; 
And when from college came our Jim with laurels 

on his brow, 
I led him to the stumpy field and put him to the 

plow. 

He something said in Latin which I didn't under- 
stand, 

But it did me good to see his plow turn up the 
dewy land ; 

And when the year had ended and empty were 
the cribs, 

We found we'd hit the mortgage, sir, a blow be- 
tween the ribs. 

To-day I harnessed up the team and thundered 
off to town. 

And in the lawyer's sight I planked the last bright 
dollar down ; 

And when I trotted up the lane, a-feeling good 
and warm. 

The old red rooster crowed his best: " No mort- 
gage on the farm." 

I'll sleep almighty good to-night, the best for 
many a day. 



It was a most tremendous thing — I really didn't I The skeleton that haunted us has passed fore'er 
mean it ; ; away. 



Why, it was big enough to hold the people of the 

town. 
And not one-half as cosy as the old one we pulled 

down. 



The girls can play the brand new tunes with no 

fears to alarm. 
And Jim can go to Congress, with no mortgage on 

the farm ! 



HOME, SWEET HOME. 



33 



LOVE IN A COTTAGE. 

THEV may talk of love in a cottage, 
And bowers of trellised vine — 
Of nature bettitchingly simple, 
And milkmaids half divine; 
They may talk of the pleasure of sleeping 

In the shade of a spreading tree, 
And a walk in the fields at morning, 
By the side of a footstep free ! 

But give me a sly flirtation 

By the light of a chandelier — 
With music to play in the pauses, 

And nobody very near ; 
Or a seat on a silken sofa, 

Near a form that is half divine. 
And mamma too blind to discover 
The small white hand in mine. 
Your love in a cot- 
tage is hungry, 
Your vine is a nest 
for flies — 
Your milkmaid 
shocks the Graces. 
And simplicity talks 
of [lies ! 
You lie down to your 
shady slumber 
And wake with a 
bug in your ear. 
And your damsel 
that walks in the 
morning 
Is shod like a moun- 
taineer. 
True love is at home 
on a carpet, 
And mightily likes '^~"\a. »--■■-" ' 

his ease — 
And true love has an eye fo' a dinner, 

.\nd starves beneath shady trees. 
His wing is the fan of a lady, 

His foot's an invisible thing, 
And his arrow is tipped with a jewel, 
And shot from a silver string. 

N. P. Willis. 

GRANDFATHER'S HOUSE. 

GRANDFATHER'S house was a gray old 
building 
Ever and ever so long ago ; 
The fields around it were deep with clover, 
The birds sang over it soft and low. 
Round Grandfather's house the turf — green vel- 
vet — 
Was sprinkled with daises white as snow. 

A clump of lilacs bloomed in May time 
Over the path by Grandfather's door — 
3 



.\h me ! the charm of those purple blossoms, 
rheir gracefui plumes just nodding o'er 

The reaching, childish hands below them — 
Their dewy fragrance I'll know no more. 

Grandfather's barn with its whistling crannies. 
Its frowning beams and rafters gray. 

Its clover smell, the twitter of swallows. 
And great, high, billowy mows of hay — 

I have found no joy that could be measured 
With Grandfather's barn on a rainy day. 

Grandfather's woods were — -'miles" it maybe, 
They reached much farther than one could see ; 

They were deep and dark and full of shadow, — 
Often explored, and as often we 

Found new treasures ; the leaves in autumn 
Were rustled by small feet noisily. 




Grandfather's room : when the day was over 

We rested full in its soothing calm, 
And heard from the Book with the leather cover. 

The ever-new — old-fashioned psalm. 
We knew not why, we asked not wherefore ; 

But peace settled over our hearts like balm. 

Oh ! for a glimpse of the dear old homestead, 

The meadow green where the sweet flag grew, 
For one long breath from the fragrant orchard, 

A touch of the cool leaves bright with dew — 
For even a sight of the " Rocky pasture," 

Or the swamp where at nightfall the cows came 
through. 
The days were long and the sunshine golden 

At Grandfather's house in the long ago ; 
The moon was larger, the stars were brighter 

And fun was plenty in rain or snow ; 
Now life at the best is dull and prosy — 

Strange that the world should alter so ! 

Mary McGuire. 



34 



HOME, SWEET HOME. 



HAPPY LOVE. 

I INCE the sweet knowledge I possess 
I That she I love is mine, 

All nature throbs with happiness, 
And wears a face divine. 




And wandering clouds in summer eves 

Are Edens to ray sight. 
My confidants and comforters 

Are river, hill and grove, 
And sun, and stars, and heaven's blue deep, 

And all that live and move. 

O friendly hills ! O garrulous woods ! 

sympathizing air ! 

many-voiced solitudes ! 

1 know my love is fair. 

1 know that she is fair and true, 
And that from her you've caught 

The changeful glories ever new, 

That robe you in my thought. 
Grief, from the armor of my heart. 

Rolls off like rustling rain : 
'Tis life to love ; but double life 
To be beloved again. 

Charles Mackay. 



THE OLD 



B' 



BARN. 

fields 



of 



The woods seem greener than they were, 

The skies are brighter blue ; 
The stars shine clearer, and the air 

Lets finer sunlight through. 
Until I loved, I was a child. 

And sported on the sands ; 
But now the ocean opens out, 

With all its happy lands. 

The circles of my sympathy 

Extend from earth to heaven, 
I strove to pierce a mystery. 

And lo ! the clue is given. 
The woods, with all their boughs and leaves, 

Are preachers of delight, 



ETWEEN broad 
wheat and corn 
Is the lowly home where I 
was born ; 
The peach-tree leans against the 

wall. 
And the woodbine wanders over all. 
^ There is the barn — and as of yore, 

I can smell the hay from the open 

door, 
And see the busy swallows throng. 
And hear the peewee's mournful 
song. 
Oh, )e who daily cross the sill. 
Step lightly, for I love it still ; 
And when you crowd the old barn eaves. 
Then think what countless harvest sheaves 
Have passed within that scented door 
To gladden eyes that are no more. 

T. Buchanan Read. 

HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS, 

IF ever household affections and love are graceful 
things, they are graceful in the poor. The 
ties that bind the wealthy and the proud at 
home may be forged on earth, but those which 
link the poor man to his humble hearth are of the 
true metal and bear the stamp of heaven. The 
man of high descent may love the halls and lands 
of his inheritance as a part of himself, as tro] hits 
of his birth and power ; the poor man's attach- 
ment to the tenement he holds, which strangers 
have held before, and may to-morrow occupy 
again, has a worthier root, struck deep into a. 
purer soil. 

Charles Dickens. 



HOME, SWEET HOME. 



35 



GOOD-NIGHT SONG. 



THE birds fly home from east and west, 
The sleepy winds are blowing, 
All tired wee things have gone to rest. 
And baby must be going. 
Dress him in white, 
And fold him tight, 
And whisper once, and twice, " Good night ! 
Then set afloat 
The cradle boat. 
The slumber-ship is just in sight ! 
Now rock and row, 
Swing to and fro. 
The winds are soft, the waves are low, 
The dream-world shores lie dim and blue. 
The sky is fair, the ship is true. 



Oh baby ! to be left behind 

Would bring us care and sorrow ; 
'Tis in dream-world you must find 
The laughter for to-morrow. 

There kisses grow. 

And dimples blow. 
And thinking streams of music flow. 

So sw^eet and clear — 

Oh, baby dear. 
The time is up to rock and row. 

We reach the ship; 

No — back we slip — 
Again the oars we poise and dip. 
We dip and poise — Oh ! ship so white. 
Now take him in ! sweetheart, good night. 



ONE OF THE SLEEPY KIND. 

1LOVE to wake at early dawn. 
When sparrows "cheep," 
And then turn over with a yawn. 
And go to sleep. 

I love to see the rising sun 

In picture books. 
In nature I don't care a bun 

How Phcebus looks. 

I love to lie abed each morn. 

In dreamy doze, 
And make the neighborhood forlorn 

With tuneful nose. 

I love to draw the blankets well 

Up around my chin ; 
I hate to hear the breakfast bell — 

Confound its din ! 

In short, I love the sweet embrace 

Of slumber deep ; 
And heaven to me will be a place 

Where I can sleep ! 

AH, NO! I CANNOT SAY "FAREWELL." 











A 



H, no ! I cannot say " Farewell," 
'Twould pierce my bosom through; 
And to this heart 'twere death's dread knell, 
To hear thee sigh "Adieu." 
Though soul and body both must part, 

Yet ne'er from thee I'll sever, 

For more to me than soul thou art. 

And oh ! I'll quit thee never. 

Whate'er through life may be thy fate. 

That fate with thee I'll share. 
If prosperous, be moderate, 

If adverse, meekly bear ; 
This bosom shall thy pillow be. 

In every change whatever, 
And tear for tear I'll shed with thee, 

But oh ! forsake thee, never. 



One home, one hearth, shall ours be still, 

And one our daily fare ; 
One altar, too, where we may kneel, 

And breathe our humble prayer ; 
And one our praise, that shall ascend 

To one all-bounteous Giver ; 
And one our will, our aim, our end. 

For oh ! we'll sunder never. 

And when that solemn hour shall come, 

That sees thee breathe thy last, 
That hour shall also fix my doom. 

And seal my eyelids fast. 
One grave shall hold us side by side. 

One shroud our clay shall cover ; 
And one then may we mount and glide. 

Through realms of love, forever. 

Alexander Rodger. 



36 



HOME, SWEET HOME. 




BERTHA IN THE LANE. 



UT the broidery-frame away, 
For my sewing is all done! 

The last thread is used to-day, 
And I need not join it on. 
Though the clock stands at the noon, 
I am weary ! I have sown, 
"-^ \c(.t, for thee, a wedding-gown. 




bister, help me to the bed. 
And stand near me, dearest-sweet ! 

Do not shrink nor be afraid, 
Blushing with a sudden heat ! 
No one standeth in the street ! — 
By God's love I go to meet, 
Love I thee with love complete. 



Mother, mother, up in heaven, 
Stand upon the jasper sea, 

And be witness I have given 
All the gifts required of me ; — 



Lean thy face down ! dro]) it in 
These two hands, that 1 may hold 

'Twixt their palms thy cheek and chin, 
Stroking back the curls of gold. 
'Tis a fair, fair face, in sooth, — 
Larger eyes and redder mouth 
Than mine were in my first youth ! 

Thou art younger by seven years — 
Ah ! so bashful at my gaze 

That the lashes, hung with tears, 
Grow too heavy to upraise ? 
I would wound thee by no touch 
Which thy shyness feels as such, — 
Dost thou mind me, dear, so much? 



Have I not been nigh a mother 
To thy sweetness, — tell me, dear? 

Have we not loved one another 
Tenderly, from year to year? 
Since our dying mother mild 
Said, with accents undefiled, 
" Child, be mother to this child ! " 



Hope that blessed me, bliss that crowned, 
Love that left me with a wound. 
Life itself, that turned around ! 

Elizabeth B. Browning. 



ABSENCE. 



WH.AT shall I do with all the days and hours 
That must be counted ere I see thy face ? 
How shall I charm the interval that low'rs 
Between this time and that sweet time of grace? 

Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense. 
Weary with longing ? — shall I flee away 

Into past days, and with some fond pretense. 
Cheat myself to forget the present day? 

Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin 

Of casting from me God's great gift of time? 

Shall I these mists of memory locked within. 
Leave, and forget, life's purposes sublime ? 

Oh ! how, or by what means, may I contrive 
To bring the hour that brings thee back more 
near ? 



How may I teach my drooping hope to live 
Until that blessed time, and thou art here ? 

I'll tell thee: for thy sake, I will lay hold 
Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee, 

In worthy deeds, each moment that is told, 
While thou, beloved one ! art far from me. 

For thee, I will arouse my thoughts to try 

All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains ; 

For thy dear sake I will walk patiently 
Thro' theselonghours,norcall their minutes pains. 

I will this dreary blank of absence make 
A noble task time, and will therein strive 

To follow excellence, and to o'ertake 

More good than I have won, since yet I live. 
Fanny K. Butler. 



HOME, SWEET HOME. 



37 



B 



THE HAPPY LOT. 

LEST is the hearth where daughters gird the 
fire, 
And sons that shall be happier than their 
sire, 
Who sees them crowd around his evening chair, 
While love and hope inspire 

his worldless prayer. 
O from their home paternal may 

they go, 
With little to unlearn, though 

much to know ! 
Them, may no poisoned tongue, 

no evil eye. 
Curse for the virtues that refuse 

to die ; 
The generous heart, the inde- 
pendent mind. 
Till truth, like falsehood, leaves 

a sting behind ' 
May temperance crown their 

feast, and friendship share ! 
May pity come, love's sister 

spirit, there ! 
May they shun baseness as they 

shun the grave ! 
May they be frugal, pious, hum- 
ble, brave ! 
Sweet peace be theirs — the 

moonlight of the breast — 
And occupation, and alternate 

rest ; 
And dear to care and thought 

the usual walk ; 
Theirs be no flower that withers 

on the stalk. 
But roses cropped, that shall not 

bloom in vain ; 
And hope's blest sun, that sets 

to rise again. 
Be chaste their 

their home be sweet, 
Their floor resound the tread of 

little feet ; 
Blest beyond fear and fate, if 

blessed by thee, 
And heirs, O love ! of thine eter- 
nity. Ebenezer Elliott. 

THE BABY. 

WHKN morning broke and baby came 
The house did scarcely seem the same 
As just before. The very air 
Grew fragrant with the essence rare 
Of a celestial garden, where 
The angels, breathless, learned to hear 
The youthful mother's fervid prayer 
To God, to guard her first-born care. 
And with what diligence each ear 



Did listen, as her lips did frame 
The helpless little stranger's name — 
When baby came ! 

When darkness came and baby died, 

The misty grief that fell belied 

The transient joy that filled the room 



nuptial bed. 




But just before ; where brooding gloom 
Now dumbly spoke the baby's doom. 
We hid away the little things 
Woven by nature's matchless loom — 
A woman's hands ! The amber bloom 
Waxed dimmer on the finch's wings; 
The flowers, too, in sorrow vied, 
As if kind nature drooped and cried — 
When baby died ! 

Charles G. Rogers. 



38 



HOME, SWEET HOME. 



SCENES OF MY YOUTH. 

SCENES of my birth, and careless childhood 
hours ! 
Ye smiling hills, and spacious fertile vales! 
Where oft 1 wandered plucking vernal flowers. 
And revelled in the odor-breathing gales ; 



THE THREE DEAREST WORDS. 

THERE are three words that sweetly 
blend. 
That on the heart are graven ; 
A precious, soothing balm they lend — 
They're mother, home and heaven ! 




Should fickle fate, with talismanic wand. 

Bear me afar where either India glows, 
Or fix my dwelling on the polar land. 

Where nature wears her ever-during snows; 
iStill shall your charms my fondest themes adorn, 

When placid evening paints the western sky, 
And when Hyperion wakes the blushing morn. 

To rear his gorgeous sapphire throne on high. 
For to the guiltless heart, where'er we roam, 
No scenes delight us like our much-loved home. 

Robert Hillhouse. 



They twine a wreath of beauteous flowers, 

Which, placed on memory's urn, 
Will e'en the longest, gloomiest hours 
To golden sunlight turn ! 

They form a chain whose precious links 

Are free from base alloy ; 
A stream where whosoever drinks 

Will find refreshing joy ! 

They build an altar where each day 

Love's offering is renewed ; 
And iieace illumes with genial ray 

Life's darkened solitude ! 

If from our side the first has fled, 

And home be but a name, 
Let's strive the narrow path to tread, 

That we the last may gain ! 

Mary J. Muckle. 



HOME, SWEET HOME. 



39 



THE MOTHER. 

A SOFTENING thought of other years, 
A feeling linked to hours 
When life was all too bright for tears, — 

And hojie sang, wreathed with flowers ! 
A memory of affections fled — 
Of voices — heard no more ! — 
Stirred in my sjiirit when I 
read 
That name of fondness 
o'er! 

Oh, mother! — in that early 
word 
What loves and joys com- 
bine ; 
What hopes — too oft, alas' — 
deferred ; 
What vigils — griefs — are 
thine ! — 
Yet never till the hour we 
roam, 
By worldly thralls op- 
prest. 
Learn we to prize that truest 
home — 
Awatchful mother's breast! 

The thousand prayers at mid- 
night poured. 
Beside our couch of 
woes ; 
The wasting weariness en- 
dured 
To soften our repose ! — 
Whilst never murmur marked 
thy tongue — 
Nor toils relaxed thy 
care : — 
How, mother, is thy heart so 
strong 
To pity and forbear ? 

What filial fondness e'er re- 
paid. 
Or could repay, the past? — 
Alas I for gratitude decayed ! 
Regrets — that rarely 
last !— 
'Tis only when the dust is thrown 

Thy lifeless bosom o'er, 
We muse upon thy kindness shown — 
And wish we'd loved thee more ! 

'Tis only when thy lips are cold, 

We mourn with late regret, 
'Mid myriad memories of old, 

The davs forever set ! 
And not an act — nor look — nor thought- 

Against thy meek control, 



But with a sad remembrance fraught 
Wakes anguish in tiie soul I 

In every land — in every clime — 

True to her sacred cause. 
Filled by that effluence sublime 

From which her strength she draws. 
Still is the mother's heart the same — 




The mother's lot as tried : — 
Then, oh I may nations guard that name 
With filial power and pride ! 

Charles Swain. 

THE SUNNY 5IDE. 

Mirth is heaven's medicine. Every one ought 
to bathe in it. Grim care, moroseness, anxiety, 
all tills rust of life ought to be scoured off by the 
oil of mirth. It is better than emery. Every man 
ought to rub himself witli it. 



40 



HOME, SWEET HOME. 



THE OLD FARMHOUSE. 



w 



E sat within the farmhouse old, 

Whose windows, looking o'er the bay. 
Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold, 
An easy entrance, night and day. 



Not far away we saw the port — 

The strange, old-fashioned, silent town- 

The lighthouse — the dismantled fort — 
The wooden houses, quaint and brown. 

We sat and talked until tlie night, 
Descending, filled the little room; 

Our faces faded from the sight. 
Our voices only broke the gloom. 



The very tones in which we spake 

Had something strange, I could but mark; 
The leaves of memory seemed to make 

A mournful rustling in the dark. 

Oft died the words upon our lips, 

As suddenly, from out the fire 
Built of the wreck of stranded ships, 

The flames would leap and then expire. 

And, as their splendor flashed and failed. 
We thought of wrecks upon the main — 

Of ships dismasted, that were hailed 
And sent no answer back again. 







We spake of many a vanished scene 

Of what we once had thougln and said. 

Of what had been, and might have been. 
And who was changed, and \\ho was dead ; 

And all that fills the hearts of iriends. 
When first they feci, with secret pain. 

Their lives thenceforth have separate ends, 
And never can be one again ; 

The first slight swerving of the heart. 
That words are powerless to express, 

And leave it still unsaid in part. 
Or say it in too great excess. 



THE CRICKET ON 

VOICE of summer, keen and shrill, 
Chirping round my winter fire. 
Of thy song T never tire, 
Weary others as they will ; 
For thy song with summer's filled — 
Filled with sunshine, filled with June ; 
Firelight echo of that noon 
Heard in fields when all is stilled. 
In the golden light of May, 
Bringing scents of new-mown hay. 
Bees, and birds, and flowers away : 



The windows, rattling in their frames — 
The ocean, roaring up the beach — 

The gusty blast — the bickering flames — 
All mingled vaguely in our speech; 

Until they made themselves a part 

Of fancies floating through the brain— 

The long-lost ventures of the heart. 
That sfnd no answers back again. 

O flames that glowed I O hearts that yearned ! 

They were indeed too much akin, 
The driftwood fire without that burned, 

The thoughts that burned and glowed vifithin. 
H. W. Longfellow. 

THE HEARTH. 

Prithee, haunt my fireside still. 
Voice of summer, keen and shrill I 
Neither night nor dawn of day 
Puti a jjcriod to thy play. 
Sing, then, and extend thy span 
Far beyond the date of man. 
Wretched man, whose years are spent 
In repining discontent, 
Lives not, aged though he be, 
Haifa span, compared with thee. 

William C. Bennett. 



HOME, SWEET HOME. 



41 



LET others seek for empty joys, 
At ball, or concert, rout or play; 
Whilst far Irom fashion's idle noise, 
Her gilded domes and trap])ings gay, 
I while the wintry eve away, 

'Twixt book and lute the hours divide : 
And marvel how I e'er could stray 
From thee — my own fireside ! 

My own fireside ! Those simple words 
Can bid the sweetest dreams arise ; 



MY OWN FIRESIDE. 

To thouglils of quiet bliss give birth ; 

Then let the churlish tempest chide, 
It cannot check the blameless mirth 

That glads my own fireside ! 



My refuge ever from the storm 

Of this world's passion, strife, and care; 
Though thunder-clouds the skies deform, 

Their fury cannot reach me there ; 
There all is cheerful, calm, and fair; 

Wrath, envy, malice, strife, or pride, 




Awaken feeling's tenderest chords, 
And fill widi tears of joy mine eyes. 

What is there my wild heart can prize, 
That doth not in thy sphere abide ; 

Haunt of my home-bred sympathies, 
My own — my own fireside ! 

A gentle form is near me now ; 

A small, white hand is clasped in mine; 
I gaze upon her placid brow, 

And ask, what joys can equal thine? 
A babe, whose beauty's half divine. 

In sleep his mother's eyes doth liide; 
Where may love seek a fitter shrine 

Than thou — my own fireside ! 

What care I for the sullen roar 

Of w-inds without, that ravage earth ; 

It dotli but bid me prize the more 

The shelter of thy hallowed hearth : — 



Hath never made is hated lair 
By thee — my own fireside ! 

Thy precincts are a charmed ring. 

Where no harsh feeling dares intrude; 
Wliere life's vexations lose iheir sting; 

Where even grief is half subdued ; 
And peace, the halcyon, loves to brood. 

Then let the world's )iroiid fool deride ; 
I'll pay my debt of gratitude 

To thee — my own fireside ! 

Shrine of my household deities ; 

Bright scene of home's unsullied joys ; 
To thee my burdened spirit flies, 

When fortune frowns, or care annoys ! 
Thine is the bliss that never cloys ; 

The smile whose truth hath oft been tried ;- 
What, then, are this world's tinsel toys, 

To thee — my own fireside ! 



42 



HOME, SWEET HOME. 



Oh, may the yearnings, fond and sweet. 

That bid my thoughts be all of thee, 
Thus ever guide my wandering feet 

To thy heart-soothing sanctuary ! 
Wliate'er my future years may be. 

Let joy or grief my fate betide ; 
Be still an Eden bright to me, 

My own — my own fireside ! 

Alaric a. Watts. 








. -■ I,; 



THE WINDOW. 

T my window, late and early, 
In the sunshine and the 
rain, 
When the jocund beams of 

morning 
Come to wake me from my 

napping. 
With their golden fingers 
tapping 
At my window pane : 
From my troubled slumbers flitting — 
From my dreamings fond and vain, 
From the fever intermitting, 
Up I start and take my sitting 
At my window-pane. 

Through the morning, through the noontide, 

Fettered by a diamond chain, 
Through the early hours of evening, 
When the stars begin to tremble. 
As their shining ranks assemble 

O'er the azure plain : 




When the thousand lamps are blazing. 
Through the street and lane — 

Mimic stars of man's upraising — 

Still I linger, fondly gazing 
From my window-pane ! 

For, amid the crowds slow passing. 

Surging like the main. 
Like a sunbeam among shadows. 

Through the storm-swept cloudy masses. 
Sometimes one bright being passes 

'Neath my window-pane; 
Thus a moment's joy I borrow 

From a day of pain. 
See, she comes ! but bitter sorrow ! 
Not until the slow to-morrow 
Will she come again. 

D. F. M'Carthy. 

THE LOST LITTLE ONE. 

WE miss her footfall on the floor, 
Amidst the nursery din, 
Her tip-tap at our bedroom door. 
Her bright face peeping in. 

And when to Heaven's high court above 

Ascends our social prayer. 
Though there are voices that we love, 

One sweet voice is not there. 

And dreary .seem the hours, and lone, 

That drag themselves along. 
Now from our board her smile is gone. 

And from our hearth her song. 

We miss that farewell laugh of hers. 

With its light joyous sound, 
And the kiss between the balusters, 

When good-night time comes round. 

And empty is her little bed. 

And on her pillow there 
Must never rest that cherub head 

With its soft silken hair. 

But often as we wake and weep. 
Our midnight thoughts -vixW roam, 

To visit her cold, dreamless sleep, 
In her last narrow home. 

Then, then it is faith's tear-dimmed eyes 

See through ethereal space, 
Amidst the angel-crowded skies, 

That dear, that well-known face. 

With beckoning hand she seems to say, 
" Though, all her sufi"erings o'er, 

Your little one is borne away 
To this celestial shore. 

Doubt not she longs to welcome you 

To her glad, bright abode, 
There happy endless ages through 

To live with her and God." 



HOME, SWEET HOME. 



43 



GATHERING APPLES. 

SEASON of mists and mellow friiitfulness ! 
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun ; 
Conspiring with him how to load and bless 
With fruit the vines that round the thatch 
eves run ; 
Tobendwithapplesthemosse^ 
cottage trees, 
And fill all fruit with ripe- 
ness to the core ; 
To swell the gourd and 
plump the hazel-shells 
With a sweet kernel ; to set 
budding more, 
And still more, later flowers 

for the bees, 
Until they think warm days 
will never cease. 
For summer has o'erbrimmed their 
clammy cells. 

HOME— A DUET. 

He. Dost thou love wandering^ whither wouldst 
thou go ? 
Dreamest thou, sweet daughter, of a land 
more fair? 
Dost thou not love these aye-blue streams 
that flow? 
These spicy forests? and this golden air' 

She. Oh, yes ! I love the woods and streams so 
gay, 
And more than all, O fjthei ' I lo\e lint, 
Yet would I fain be wandering far away. 
Where such things never \\ere, nor e'er 
shall be. 

He. Speak, mine own daughter, with the sun 
bright locks. 
To what pale banished nation wouldst 
thou roam ? 
She. O father, let us find our frozen rocks ' 

Let's seek that country of all countries — 
home ! 

He. See'st thou these orange flowers ! this palm 
that rears 

Its head up tow'rds heaven's blue and 
cloudles? dome ? 
She. I dream, I dream, mine eyes are hid in tears, 
My heart is wandering round our ancient 
home. 

He. Why, then, we'll go. Farewell, ye tender 
skies. 
Who sheltered us when we were forced to 
roam. 
She. On, on ! Let's pass the swallow as he flies! 
Farewell, kind land ! Now, father, now 
for home. Barry Cornwall. 



IF THOU HAST LOST A FRIEND. 

IF thou hast lost a friend, 
By hard or hasty word. 
Go — call hiin to thy heart again ; 
Let pride no more be heard. 




Remind him of those happy days. 

Too beautiful to last, 
Ask, if a 7£/<?r(/should cancel years 
Of truth and friendship past? 
Oh ! if thou'st lost a friend. 

By hard or hasty word, 
Go — call him to thy heart again ; 
Let pride no more be heard. 

Oh ! tell him, from thy thought, 

The light of joy hath fled ; 
That, in thy sad and silent breast. 

Thy lonely heart seems dead ; 
That mount and vale — each path ye trod, 

By morn or evening dim, — 
Reproach you with their frowning gaze. 

And ask your soul for him. 



44 



HOME^ SWEET HOME. 



Then, if thou'st lost a friend, 

By hard or hasty word, 
Go — call him to thy heart again ; 

Let pride no more be heard. 

Charles Swain. 

I THINK ON THEE. 

I THINK on thee in the night, 
When all beside is still. 
And the moon comes out, with her pale, sad 
light, 
To sit on the lonely hill. 
When the stars are all like dreams. 

And the breezes all like sighs. 
And there comes a voice from the far-off streams, 
Like thy spirit's low replies ! 

I think on tliee by day, 

'Mid the cold and busy crowd. 
When the laughter of the young and gay 

Is far too glad and loud 
I hear thy soft sad tone. 

And thy young sweet smile I see; 
My heart, my heart, were all alone, 

But for its dreams of thee ! 

Of thee who wert so dear, — 

And yet I do not weep, 
For thine eyes were stained by many a tear 

Before they went to sleep ; 
And if I haunt the past. 

Yet may I not repine. 
That thou hast won thy rest at last, 

And all the grief is mine. 

I think upon thy gain, 

Whate'er to me it cost. 
And fancy dwells with less of pain 

On all that I have lost ! 
Hope, like the cuckoo's oft-told tale, 

Alas ! it wears her wing ; 
And love, that, like the nightingale, 

Sings only in the spring ! 

Thou art my spirit's all, 

Just as thou wert in youth. 
Still from thv grave no shadows fall 

Upon my lonely truth. 
A taper yet above thy tomb 

Since lost its sweeter rays, 
And what is memory through the gloom 

Was hope in brighter days. 

I am pining for the home 

Where sorrow sinks to sleep, 
Where tlie weary and the weepers come, 

And they cease to toil and weep ; 
They walk about with smiles. 

That each should be a tear. 
Vain as the summer's glowing spoils. 

Flung o'er an early bier. 



Oh ! like those fairy things, 

Those insects of the East, 
That iiave their beauty in their wings. 

And shroud it when at rest ; 
That fold their colors of the sky. 

When earthward they alight. 
And flash their splendor on the eye, 

Only to take their flight. 

I never knew how dear thou wert, 

Till thou wert borne away ! 
I have it yet about my heart. 

Thy beauty of that day ! 
As if the robe thou wert to wear 

Beyond the stars were given. 
That I might learn to know it there. 

And seek thee out in heaven. 

T. K. Hervey. 

UNCONSCIOUS INFLUENCE. 

THERE'S never a rose in all the world 
But makes some green spray sweeter; 
There's never a wind in all the sky 
But makes some bird wing fleeter ; 
There's never a star but brings to heaven 

Some silver radiance tender ; 
And never a rosy cloud but helps 
To crown the sunset splendor ; 
No robin but may thrill some heart, 

His dawnlight gladness voicing. 
God gives us all some small, sweet way 
To set the world rejoicing. 

DOMESTIC LOVE. 

DOMESTIC Love ! not in proud palace halls 
Is often seen thy beauty to abide ; 
Thy dwelling is in lowly cottage walls. 
That in the thickets of the woodbine hide; 
With hum of bees around, and from the side 
Of woody hills some little bubbling spring. 

Shining along through banks with harebells 
dyed ; 
And many a bird to warble on the wing. 
When morn her saffron robe o'er heaven and earth 
doth fling. 

O ! love of loves ! — to thy white hand is given 

Of earthly happiness the golden key ! 
Thine are the jjyous hours of winter's even. 

When the babes cling around their father's 

knee ; 
And thine the voice, that on the midnight sea 
Melts the rude mariner with thoughts of home. 
Peopling the gloom with all he longs to see. 
Spirit! — I've built a shrine; and thou hast come. 
And on its altar closed — for ever closed thy 
plume ! 

George Croly. 



HOME, SWEET HOME. 



45 



H 



"NOT LOST, BUT GONE BEFORE.' 

OW niournrul beems, in broken dreams, 
The memory of the day, 
When icy death hath sealed the breath 
or some dear form of clay ! 

AVhen pale, unmoved, the face we loved. 

The face we thought so fair. 
And the hand lies cold, whose fervent hold 

Once charmed away desjjair. 

Oh, what could heal the grief we feel 

For hopes that come no more. 
Had we ne'er heard the Scripture word, 

" Not lost, but gone before !" 

Oh sadly yet with vain regret 

The widowed heart must ) earn ; 
And mothers weep their babes asleep 

In the sunlight's vain return. 

The brother's heart shall rue to part 
From the one through child- 
hood known ; 
And the orphan's tears lament 
for years 
A friend and father gone 

For death and life, with ceaseless 
strife. 

Beat wild on this world's shore, 
And all our calm is in that balm, 

" Not lost, but gone before." 

Oh ! world wherein nor death, 
nor sin, 
Nor weary warfare dwells ; 
Their blessed home we parted 
from 
With sobs and sad farewells. 

Where eyes awake, for whose dear 
sake 

Our own with tears grow dim, 
And faint accords of dying words 

Are changed for heaven's sweet hymn ; 

Oh ! there at last, life's trials past, 

We'll meet our loved once more, 
"Whose feet have trod the path to God — 

" Not lost, but gone before." 

Caroline Norton. 

AUNT JEMIMA'S QUILT. 

A MIRACLE of gleaming dyes. 
Blue, scarlet, buff and green; 
Oh, ne'er before by mortal eyes 
Such gorgeous hues were seen ! 
So grandly was its plan designed, 

So cunningly 'twas built. 
The whole proclaimed a master mind — 
My Aunt Jemima's quilt. 



This work of art my aunt esteemed 

The glory of her age ; 
Nl) poet's eyes have ever beamed 

More proudly o'er his page. 




Were other quilts to this compared 
Her nose would upward tilt ; 

Such impudence was seldom dared 
O'er Aunt Jemima's quilt. 

Her dear old hands have gone to dust, 

That once were lithe and light. 
Her needles keen are thick with rust 

That flashed so nimbly bright ; 
And here it lies by her behest. 

Stained with the tears we s])ilt, 
Safe folded in this cedar chest— 

My Aunt Jemima's quilt. 




GATHERING FLOWERS. 



46 



HOME, SWEET HOME. 



47 



THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. 

This delightful poem was written when the author, a poor 
printer, resided in Duane Street, New York City. Coming 
into the house one hot day he poured out a glass of water 
and eagerly drank it. As he did so he exclaimed, " This 
is very relreshing; but how much more refreshing would it 
be to take a good, long draught from the old oaken bucket I 
left hanging in ray father's well, at 
home." " Selin," said his wife, 
*' wouldn't that be a pretty subject 
for a poem ?" Woodworth took 
his pen, and as the picture of his 
old home in I'lymouth county, 
Mass., came to his memory, he 
wrote the familiar words which 
have touched the universal heart. 



As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, 

And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the 
well ; 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well. 
Samuel Woodworth. 



H 



OW dear to this heart 
are the scenes of my 
childhood, 
When fond recollection 
presents them to view ! 
The orchard, the meadow, 
the deep-tangled wild- 
wood, 
And every loved spot 
which my infancy knew — 
The wide-spreading pond, 
and the mill which stood 
by it, 
The bridge, and the rock 
where the cataract fell ; 
The cot of my father, the 
dairy-house nigh it. 
And e'en the rude bucket 
which hung in the well ; 
The old oaken bucket, the 

iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket 
which hung in the well. 

That moss-covered bucket I hail as _ 
a treasure ; 
For often, at noon, when returned 
from the field, 
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure. 
The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. 
How ardent I seized it, with hands that w ere glow- 
ing ! 
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell ! 
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, 
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well; 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well. 

How sweet from the green mossy brim to re- 
ceive it, 
As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips ; 
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to 
leave it. 
Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. 
And now, far removed from the loved situation, 
The tear of regret will intrusively swell, 




BEREFT. 

LET me come in where you sit weeping : aye 
Let me who have not any child to die 
AVeep with you for the little one whose love 
I have known nothing of. 
The little arms that slowly, slowly loosed 
Their pressure round your neck; the hands you used 
To kiss; such arms, such hands, I never knew; 
May I not weep with you ? 
Fain would I be of service, say something 
Between the tears that would be comforting 
But, ah ! so sadder than yourselves am I 
Who have no child to die ! 

James Whitcomb Riley. 



48 



HOME, SWEET HOME. 



I COME TO THEE, MY WIFE. 



I 



COME to thee, my wife, 
In every time of need, 
To strengthen me in strife, 
For noble work and deed 
I come in hours of cahii, 
Because thy love is rest, 




■(^^ 




^^^•^m^^^^, 



I come to thee its life 

That joy may overflow ; 
I come and find my food, 

The ibod the angels eat, 
And stay in raptured mood, 

All blessed at thy feet ! 

I come with empty mind, 

As wintercomes 
to spring, 
I come to thee, 
so kind, 
And thou dost 
fullness bring; 
I breathe thy 
light and air, 
I live beneath 
thy smile. 
And all my mind 

is fair, 
And budding all 
the while ! 



Dear wife, I come 
to thee, 
Because thou 
art so true. 
Because thy love 
is free, 
And there I love 
renew. 
I come and share 

thy heart. 
And mingle with 

thy life, 
No more, no more 
to part, 
beloved wife ! 



M\ own 



A blessing and a balm ; 
With thee I'm ever blest ! 

I come to thee soul-sad, 

I come to thee for cheer. 
Thy sun of love makes glad, 

And drives away the drear. 
I come with darksome thought. 

To thee so full of light, 
A magic change is wrought, 

And day replaces night. 

O come to thee, my wife, 
My heart is lone and low ; 



The bird thus seeks its nest, 

1 he river thus the sea. 
And man his evening rest. 

So do I come to thee. 
The flowers thus do grow. 
The stars thus sweetly shine, 
And all my heart is so 
Because that it is thine ! 

The Arab loves the fount 

That slakes his desert thirst, 
The Swiss the towering mount 

Where freedom came at first. 
I love the love of thee, 

My darling and my own, 
Thy love a mighty sea. 

Thy faith, my heart's great throne ! 

I come to thee, my wife. 

In every time I know ; 
I come to thee, my wife, 

Till loves together flow. 



HOME, SWEET HOME. 



49 




Thus let them wander on, 

Through time, and death and bliss, 
For we, my love are one, 

In yonder world and this ! 

William Brunton. 

THE HAPPY HUSBAND. 

FT, oft methinks, the while 

with thee 
I breathe, as from the heart, 

thy dear 
And dedicated name, I hear 
A promise and a mystery, 
A pledge of more than pass 

ing life. 
Yea, in that very name of 

wife ! 

.A pulse of love, that ne'er 
can sleep ! 
A feeling that upbraids the 

heart 
With happiness beyond de- 
sert. 
That gladnesshalf requests to 
weep! 

Nor bless I not the keener sense 
And unalarming turbulence 

Of transient joys, that ask no sting 

From jealous fears, or coy denying ; 

But born beneath love's brooding wing, 
And into tenderness soon dying, 

Wheel out their giddy moment, then 

Resign the soul to love again. 

A more precipitated vein 

Of notes, that eddy in the flow 

Of smoothest song, they come, they go, 

And leave their sweeter under-strain 
Its own sweet self — a love of thee 
That seems, yet cannot greater be ! 

S. T. Coleridge. 

JUST WHAT I WANTED. 

GRANDPAPA looked at his fine new chair, 
On the twenty-sixth day of December, 
Saying: "Santa Glaus is so good to me ! 
He never fails to remember ; 
But my old armchair is the one for me " 

(And he settled himself in it nicely); 
" I hope he wont mind if I cling to it, 
For it fits my back precisely." 

Papa came home that very night. 

He had plowed his way through the snow. 
And the Christmas twinkle had left his eye, 

.\nd his step was tired and slow. 
AVarming for him his slippers lay, 

The lovely embroidered-in-gold ones. 
That had hung on the Christmas tree last night ; 

But he slipi)ed his feet in the old ones. 




And when dear little Marjory's bedtime came. 

On the parlor rug they found her. 
The long, dark lashes a-droop on her cheeks 

.•\nd her Christmas to;s around her. 
Neglected Angelique's waxen nose 

The fire had melted com|)letely ; 
But her precious rag doll, Hannah Jane, 

On her breast was resting sweetly. 



ONE OF THE DEAR= 
EST WORDS. 

HERE is something in 
the word home, that 
wakes the kindliest 
feelings of the heart. 
It is not merely friends 
and kindred who ren- 
der that place so dear ; 
but the very hills and 
rocks and rivulets 
throw a charm around 
the place of one's na- 
tivity. It is no won- 
der that the loftiest 
harps have been tuned 
to sing of " home, 
sweet home." The 
rose that bloomed in 
the garden where one has wandered in early years 
a thoughtless child, careless in innocence, is lovely 
in its bloom, and lovelier in its decay. 

No songs are sweet like those we heard among 
the boughs that shade a parent's dwelling, when 
the morning or the evening hour found us gay as 
the birds that warbled over us. No waters are 
bright like the clear silver streams that wind 
among the flower-decked knolls, where, in child- 
hood, we have often strayed to pluck the violet or 
the lily, or to twine a garland for some loved 
schoolmate. 

We may wander away and mingle in the 
"world's fierce strife," and form new associa- 
tions and friendships, and fancy we have almost 
forgotten the land of our birth ; but at some even- 
ing hour, as we listen perchance to the autumn 
winds, the remembrance of other days comes over 
the soul, and fancy bears us back to childood's 
scenes. We roam again the old familiar haunts, 
and press the hands of comi\'inions long since cold 
in the grave, and listen to the voices we shall hear 
on earth no more. It is then a feeling of melan- 
choly steals over us, which, like Ossian's music, is 
pleasant, though mournful to the soul. 

The African, torn from his willow-braided hut, 
and borne aw-ay to the land of strangers and of 
toil, weeps as he thinks of home, and sighs and 
pines for the cocoaland beyond the waters of the 



50 



HOME, SWEET HOME. 



sea. Years may have passed over him ; strifes and 
toil may have crushed his spirits ; all his kindred 
may have found graves upon the corals of the 
ocean ; yet, were he free, how soon would he seek 
the shores and skies of his boyhood dreair.s I 

The New England mariner, amid the icebergs 
of the Northern seas, or breathing the spicy gales 
of the evergreen isles, or coasting along the shores 
of the Pacific, though tiie hand of time may have 
blanched his raven locks, and care have plowed 
dee]5 furrows on his brow, and his heart have been 
chilled by the storms of the ocean, till the foun- 
tains of his love have almo t ceased to gush vi'ith 
the heavenly current ; yet, upon some summer s 
evening, as he looks out upon the sun sinking be- 
hind the western wave, he will think of home ; his 
heart will yearn for the loved of other days, and 
his tears flow like the summer rain. 

How, after long years of absence, does the heart 
of the wanderer beat, and his eyes fill, as he 
catches a glimpse of the hills of his nativity; and 
when he has pressed the lip of a brother or sister, 
how soon does he hasten to see if the garden, and 
the orchard, and the stream look as in days gone 
by ! VVe may find climes as beautiful, and skies 
as bright, and friends as devoted ; but that will 
not usurp the place of home. 

COME HOME. 

These lines of Mrs. Ilemans, addressed to her brothers ho 
was fighting in Spain under .Sir John Moore, disphiy the 
remarkable tenderness, beauty and sweetness of htr far- 
famed productions. In the qualities that belong to the 
poetry of feeling and sentiment, she may be said to have few 
rivals, and no superior among literary celebrities. 



c 



OME home. 
Would I could send 
deep, 



my spirit o'er the 



Would I could wing it like a bird to thee, 
To commune witli thy thoughts, to fill thy sleep 
With these unwearying words of melody, 
Brother, come home. 

Come home. 
Come to the hearts that love thee, to the eyes 

That beam in brightness but to gladden thine ; 
Come where fond thoughts like holiest incense 
rise. 
Where cherished memory rears her altar's shrine. 
Brother, come home. 

Come home. 
Come to the hearthstone of thy earlier days. 

Come to the ark, like the o'erwearied dove. 
Come with the sunlight of thy heart's warm rays, 
Come to the fireside circle of thy love. 
Brother, come home. 

Come home. 
It is not home without thee ; the lone seat 

Is still unclaimed where thou wert wont to be ; 



In every echo of returning feet 

In vain we list for what sliould herald thee. 
Brother, come home. 

Come home. 
We've nursed for thee the sunny buds of spring. 
Watched every germ a full-blown flow'ret rear. 
Saw o'er their bloom the chilly winter bring 
Its icy garlands, and thou art not here. 
Brother, come home. 

Come home. 
Would I could send my spirit o'er the deep, 
Would I could wing it like a bird to thee 
To commune with thy tiioughts, to fill thy sleep 
With these unwearying words of melody. 
Brother, come home. 

Felicia D. Hemans. 

FAREWELL. 

F.XREWELL ! if ever fondest prayer 
For other's weal availed on high. 
Mine will not all be lost in air, 

But waft thy name beyond the sky. 
'Twere vain to speak — to weep — to sigh- 
Oh I more than tears of blood can tell, 
When wrung from guilt's expiring e\ e, 
Are in that word. Farewell ! Farewell ! 

These lips are mute, these eyes are dry. 

But in my breast and in my brain, 
Awake the pangs that pass not by, 

The thought that ne'er shall sleep again ; 
My soul nor deigns nor dares comj^lain ; 

Though grief and passion there rebel, 

I only know we loved in vain, 

I only feel Farewel' ! Farewell I 

Lord Byron. 
NEAR THEE. 

I WOULD be with thee — near thee— ever near 
thee — 
Watching thee ever, as the angels are — 
Still seeking with my spirit-power to cheer thee. 

And thou to see me, but as some bright star. 
Knowing me not, but yet oft-times perceiving 
That when thou gazest I still brighter grow. 
Beaming and trembling — like some bosom heaving 
With all it knows, yet would not have thee know^ 

I would be with thee — fond, yet silent ever, 

Nor break the spell in which my soul is bound ; 
Mirrored within thee as within a river ; 

A flower upon thy breast, and thou the ground ! 
That, when 1 died and unto earth returned. 

Our natures never more might parted be ; 
Within thy being all mine own inurned — 

Life, bloom, and beauty, all absorbed in thee ! 

Charles Swain. 




-J PROUD young motKfr, in tKe glow 

Of life'i gidd morning , lonO doo 
Ir wd^ her hdppy tdik to guide 
tiib cKildish steps wKen, side by side, 

Along d ^unIl^ pdtK they Wcjiked. 
His imdil hdnd cldsped in hers, and tdlked 
\X/ilh Joyous tones, dnd Iduohter ligKt, 
Amid d world of beduty bn^Kt — 



\ow, bent benedtl-i tKe wei^bt of years, 
Obe ledns upon his drm , dnd hear^ 

The deep, stern voice his comrddes know,, 
^pcdking in accents soft dnd low, 
while, with erect dnd manly air, 
A noble son, with loving care 

fie guides her feeble steps, whose ddy 
->^ Of life IS fading fast dwdy ' 

Wlh ^srdteful heart he dwells upon 
The gracious time, forever 6one, 
The hours she Wdtched and tended him ' 
And now her eyes dre Orowino dim. 
And strength is failing, he will guide 
Her feeble steps with lender pride, 
// Counting her love of higher vjarth 

any prixe he ^ms 
on earth 





51 



52 



HOME, SWEET HOME. 



FAILED. 

YES, I'm a ruined man, Kate — everything gone 
at last; 
Nothing to show for the trouble and toil of 
the weary years that are past ; 
Houses and lands and money have taken wings 

and fled ; 
This very morning I signed away the loof from 
over my head. 

I shouldn't care for myself, Kate ; I'm used to 
the world's rough ways ; 

Tve dug and delved and plodded along through 
all my manhood days ; 

But I think of you and the children, and it al- 
most breaks my heart ; 

For I thought so surely to give my boys and 
girls a splendid start. 

So many )ears on the ladder, I thought I was 
near the top — 

Only a lew days longer, and then I expected to 
stop, 

And ijut the boys in my place, Kate, with an 
easier life ahead ; 

But now I must give the prospect up ; that com- 
forting dream is dead. 

" I am worth more than my gold, eh?" You're 

good to look at it so ; 
But a man isn't worth very much, Kate, when 

his hair is turning to snow. 
Mv poor little girls, with their soft white hands, 

and their innocent eyes of blue, 
Turned adrift in the heartless world — what can 

and what will they do ? 

" An honest failure ?" Indeed it was ; dollar for 

dollar was paid ; 
Never a creditor suffered, whatever people have 

said. 
Better are rags and a conscience clear than a 

palace and flush of shame. 
One thing I shall leave to my children, Kate ; 

and that is an honest name. 

What's that ? " The boys are not troubled, they 

are ready now to begin 
And gain us another fortune, and work through 

thick and thin?" 
The noble fellows ! already I feel I haven't so 

much to bear ; 
Their courage has lightened my heavy load of 

misery and despair. 

" And the girls are so glad it was honest ; they'd 
rather not dress .sv. fine. 
And think they did it with money that wasn't 
honesth' mine?" 



They'ie ready to show what they're made of — 

quick to earn and to save — 
My blessed, good little daughters ! so generous 

and so brave ! 

And you think we needn't fret, Kate, while we 

have each other left, 
No matter of what possessions our lives may be 

bereft ? 
You are right. With a quiet conscience, and a 

wife so good and true, 
I'll put my hand to the plow again ; and I know 

that we'll pull through. 

EVERY INCH A MAN. 

SHE sat on the porch in the sunshine 
As I went down the street — 
A woman whose hair was silver, 
But whose face was blossom sweet, 
Making me think of a garden. 

When in spite of the frost and snow 
Of bleak November weather. 
Late, fragile lilies grow. 

I heard a footstep behind me. 

And the sound of a merry laugh. 
And I knew the heart it came from 

Would be like a comforting staff 
In the time and the hour of trouble, 

Hopeful and brave and strong ; 
One of the hearts to lean on. 

When we think all things go wrong. 

I turned at the click of the gate latch. 

And met his manly look ; 
A face like his gives me pleasure, 

Like the page of a pleasant book. 
It told of a steadfast purpose, 

Of a brave and daring will ; 
A face with a promise in it 

That, God grant, the years fulfill. 

He went up the pathway singing, 

I saw the woman's eyes 
Grow bright with a wordless welcome. 

As sunshine warms the skies. 
"Back again, sweetheart mother," 

He cried, and bent to kiss 
The loving face that was uplifted 

For what some mothers miss. 

That boy will do to depend on ; 

I hold that this is true — • 
From lads in love with their mothers 

Our bravest heroes grew. 
Earth's grandest hearts have been loving hearts 

Since time and earth began ; 
And the boy who kisses his mother 

Is every inch a man ! 




CHARLES DICKENS. 




RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE: 

CONTAINING 

GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF NATURAL SCENERY, 

INCLUDING 
THE PICTURESQUE, THE BEAUTIFUL, AND THE SUBLIME. 

AFTER SUNSET. 

NE tremulous star above the deepening west; 
The splash of waves upon a quiet berxh ; 
A sleepy twitter from some hidden nest 
Amidst the clustered ivy, out of reach. 

The sheep-bell's tinkle from the daisied leas; 

The rhythmic fall of homeward-wending fee ; 
A wind that croons amongst the leafy trees, 

And dies away in whispers faint and sweef. 

A pale young moon, whose slender silver boT 
Creeps slowly up beyond the purple hill; 

And seems to absorb the golden afterglow 
Within the far horizon lingering still. 

A.i open lattice and the scent of musk ; 

Then, through the slumbrous hush of earth and sky, 
A tender mother-voice that in the dusk 

Sings to a babe some Old-World lullaby. 

E. Matheson. 




T 



A MOONLIGHT NIGHT. 

HE stars that stand about the moon, 
Their shining faces veil as soon 
As at her full, in splendor bright. 
She floods the earth with silver light. 



And through green boughs of apple trees 
Cool comes the rustling of the breeze, 
While from the quivering leaves down flows 
A stream of sleep and soft repose. 

Jane Sedgwick. 



THE ROSE. 

( i 'T^HE rose is fairest when 'tis budding new, 
I And hope is brightest when it dawns 
■*• from fears ; 

The rose is sweetest washed with morning dew, 

And love is loveliest when embalmed in tears. 
O wilding rose, whom fancy thus endears, 




I bid your blossoms in my bonnet wave, 
Emblem'of hope and love through future years!" 
Thus spoke young Norman, heir of .\rmandave, 
What time the sun arose on Vennacb.ar's broad 
wave. Sir Walter Scott. 

r>?. 



64 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 



SPRING. 

DIP down upon the northern shore, 
O sweet new-year, delaying long : 
Thou doest expectant nature wrong ; 
Delaying long, delay no more. 

What stays thee from the clouded noons, 
Thy sweetness from its proper place? 
Can trouble live with April days. 

Or sadness in the summer moons ? 

Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire, 
The little speedwell's darling blue. 



The happy birds, that change their sky 
To build and brood, that live their lives 

From land to land ; and in my breast 
Spring wakens too ; and my regret 
Becomes an April violet, 

And buds and blossoms like the rest. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



G 



^■&?^ 



THE USE OF FLOWERS. 

OD might have made the earth bring forth, 
Enough for great and small. 
The oak-tree and the cedar-tree, 



cx,^^^< 




Deep tulips dashed with fiery dew. 
Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire. 

O thou, new-year, delaying long, 
Delayest the sorrow in my blood, 
That longs to burst a frozen bud. 

And flood a fresher throat with song. 

Now fades the last long streak of snow ; 
Now bourgeons every maze of quick 
About the flowering squares, and thick 

By ashen roots the violets blow. 

Now rings the woodland loud and long. 
The distance takes a lovelier hue. 
And drowned in yonder living blue 

The lark becomes a sightless song. 

Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, . 
The flocks are whiter down the vale, 
.\nd milkier every milky sail 

On winding stream or distant sea; 

AVhere now the seamew pipes, or dives 
In yonder greening gleam, and fly 



Without a flower at all. 
We might have had enough, enough 

For every want of ours. 
For luxury, medicine, and toil, 

And yet have had no flowers. 

Then wherefore, wherefore were they made, 

All dyed with rainbow-light, 
All fashioned with supremest grace 

Upspringing day and night : — 
Springing in valleys green and low. 

And on the mountains high. 
And in the silent wilderness 

Where no man passes by ? 

Our outward life requires them not, — 

Then wherefore had they birth ? — 
To minister delight to man, 

To beautify the earth ; 
To comfort man, — to whisper hope. 

Whene'er his faith is dim, 
For who so careth for the flowers 

Will care much more for him ! 

Mary Howitt. 




THE FIRST FLOWERS OF THE SEASON. 



55 



56 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 



SONG OF THE SUMMER WINDS. 



u 



P the dale and down the bourne, 
O'er the meadows swift we fly ; 
Now we sing, and now we mourn, 
Now we whistle, now we sigh. 




By the grassy-fringed river, 

Through the murmuring reeds we sweep ; 
Mid the lily-leaves we quiver, 

To their very hearts we creep. 

Now the maiden rose vs. blushing 

At the frolic things we say, 
While aside her check we're rushing, 

Like some truant bees at play. 



Through the blooming groves we rustle, 
Kissing every bud we pass, — 

As we did it in the bustle. 
Scarcely knowing how it was. 

Down the glen, across the mountain. 
O'er the yellow heath we roam, 

Whirling round about the fountain, 
Till its little breakers foam. 

Bending down the weeping willows, 
While our vesper hymn we sigh ; 
Then unto our rosy pillows 

On our weary wings we hie. 

There of idlenesses dreaming, 
Scarce from waking we refrain. 

Moments long as ages deeming 

Till we're at our play again. 

George Darley. 

ONLY PROMISES. 

FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree. 
Why do ye fall so fast? 
Your date is not so past 
But you may stay yet here awhile 
To blush and gently smile, 
And go at last. • 

What ! were ye born to be 
An hour or half's delight. 
And so to bid good night? 
'Tis pity nature brought ye 
forth 
Merely to show your wort! 
And lose you quite. 

But you are lovely leaves, where we 
May read how soon things have 
Their end, though ne'er so brave; 
And after they have shown their uride 
Like you awhile, they glide 
Into the grave. 

Robert Herrick. 

TrIE ROCKY MOUNTAINS. 

On the eastern border of the Colorado plateau the summits 
attain llieir greatest elevation, and here are more than two 
hundred peaks that rise to an altitude of thirteen or fourteen 
thousand feet above the level of the sea. 

THESE mountains, piercing the blue sky 
With their eternal cones of ice — 
The torrents dashing from on high. 
O'er rock and crag and precipice — 
Change not, but still remain as ever, 

Unwasting, deathless, and sublime, 
iVnd will remain while lightnings quiver. 

Or stars the hoary summits climb. 
Or rolls tiie thunder-chariot of eternal time. 

Albert Pike. 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 



THE FALLS OF 
NIAGARA. 

The following selection vividly 
depicts the overwhelming impres- 
sions of sublimity and infinite power, 
which the first view of the great 
cataract is so well calculated to pro- 
duce upon the beholder. 

I STOOD within a vision's 
spell ; 
I saw, I heard. The 
liquid thunder 
Went p o u r i n g t o its 
foaming hell, 
And it fell 
Ever, ever fell 
Into the invisible abyss 
opened under. 

I stood upon a speck of 
ground ; 
Before me fell a stormy 
ocean. 
I was like a captive bound ; 
And around 
A universe of sound 
Troubled the heavens with 
ever-quivering motion. 

Down, down forever — down, 
down forever. 
Something falling, falling, 
falling, 
Up, up forever — up, up for- 
ever. 

Resting never, 
Boiling up forever. 
Steam-clouds shot up with 
thunder-bursts appalling. 

A tone that since the birth 
of man 
Was never for a moment 
broken, 
A word that since the world 
began , 

And waters ran. 
Hath spoken still to 
man, — 
Of God and of Eternity hath sjoken. 

THE VALE OF CASHMERE. 

WHO has not heard of the Vale of Cash- 
mere, 
With its roses the brightest that earth 
ever gave, 
Its temples, and grottoes, and fountains as clear 

As the love-lighted eyes that hang over their wave? 
O, to see it at sunset — when warm o'er the lake 
Its splendor at parting a summer eve throws, 




Like a bride, full of blushes, when lingering to take 
A last look of her mirror at night ere she 

goes ! — 
When the shrines through the foliage are gleaming 

half shown, 
And each hallows the hour by some rites of its 

own. 

Here the music of prayer from a minaret swells. 
Here the Magian his urn full of perfume is 
swinging. 



58 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 



And here, at the altar, a zone of sweet bells 

Round the waist of some fair Indian dancer is 
ringing. 
Or to see it by moonlight — when mellowly 

shines 
The light o'er its palaces, gardens, and shrines ; 
When the waterfalls gleam like a quick fall of 
, stars. 
And the nightingale's hymn from the Isle of 



Chenars 



Is broken by laughs and light echoes of feet 
From the cool shining walks where the young 
people meet. 

Or at morn, when the magic of daylight awakes 
A new wonder each minute as slowly it breaks, 



Hills, cupolas, fountains, called forth every one 
Out of darkness, as they were just born of the 

sun. 
When the spirit of fragrance is up with the 

day, 
From his harem of night-flowers stealing away; 
And the wind, full of wantonness, woos like a 

lover 
The young aspen-trees till they tremble all over. 
When the east is as warm as the light of first 

hopes. 
And the day, with its banner of radiance unfurled, 
Shines in through the mountainous portal that 

opes 
Sublime, from that valley of bliss to the world ! 

Thomas Moore. 



THE NIGHTINGALE. 




j ARK ! ah, the nightingale ! 
The tawny-throated ! 
Hark ! from that moonlit cedar 

what a burst ! 
What triumph ! hark — what 

pain ! 
O wanderer from a Grecian 

shore. 
Still — after many years, in dis- 
tant lands — 
Still nourisliing in thy be- 
wildered brain 
That wild, unquenchcd, deep- 
sunken. Old World pain — 
Say, will it never heal ? 
And can this fragrant lawn, 
With its cool trees, and night, 
And the sweet, tranquil Thames, 
And moonshine, and the dew. 
To thy racked heart and brain 
Afford no balm ? 

Dost thou to-night behold, 
Here, through the moonlight on this English 

grass, 
The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild? 

Dost thou again peruse, 
With hot cheeks and seared eyes. 
The too clear web, and thy dumb sister's shame? 

Dost thou once more essay 
Thy llight ; and feel come over thee, 
• Poor fugitive ! the feathery change ; 
Once more ; and once more make resound, 
/With love and hate, triumph and agony, 
Lone Daulis, and the high Cephisian vale? 

Listen, Eugenia — 

How thick the bursts come crowding through the 
leaves ! 



Again — thou hearest ! 
Eternal passion ! 
Eternal pain ! 

Matthew Arnold. 

TO THE DAISY. 

IN youth from rock to rock I went. 
From hill to hill, in discontent. 
Of pleasure high and turbulent. 
Most pleased when most uneasy ; 
But now my own delights I make, — 
My thirst at every rill can slake. 
And gladly nature's love partake 
Of thee, sweet daisy ! 

When soothed a while by milder airs. 
Thee winter in the garland wears 
That thinly shades his few grey hairs ; 

Spring cannot shun thee ; 
Whole summer fields are thine by right : 
And autumn, melancholy wight ! 
Doth in thy crimson head delight 

When rains are on thee. 

In shoals and bands, a dancing train. 
Thou greet'st the traveler in the lane ; 
If welcomed once thou countest it gain; 

Thou art not daunted. 
Nor carest i f thou be set at naught : 
And oft alone in nooks remote 
We meet thee, like a pleasant thought. 

When such are wanted. 

Be violets in their secret news 

The flowers the wanton zephyrs choose ; 

Proud be the rose, with rains and dews 

Her head impearling ; 
Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim. 
Yet hast not gone without thy fame ; 
Thou art indeed, by many a claim. 

The poet's darling ! 

William Wordsworth. 




aAKK: llIE NIGUTl.NGALE. 



59 



60 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 



LAUGH of the mountain ! lyreofbird and tree! 
Pomp of the meadow ! mirror of the morn ! 
The soul of April, unto whom are born 
The rose and jessamine, leaps wild in thee! 



THE BROOK. 

FROM THE SPANISH. 

How without guile thy bosom, all transparent 
As the pure crystal, lets the curious eye 
Thy secrets scan, thy smooth, round pebbles count 5 
How, without malice murmuring, glides thy current 1 




Although, where'er thy devious current strays. 
The lap of earth with gold and silver teems, 
To me thy clear proceeding brighter seems 
Than golden sands that charm each shepherd'sgaze. 



H 



HARK, HARK! 

ARK, hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings, 
And Phcebus 'gins arise. 
His steeds to water at those springs 
On chaliced flowers that lies ; 
And winking Mary-buds begin 



O sweet simplicitay cf dys gone by! 
Thou shun'st the haunts of man, to dwell in lim- 
pid fount ! 

H. W. Longfellow. 

THE LARK. 

To ope their golden eyes ; 
With everything that pretty bin, 
My lady sweet, arise ; 
Arise, arise ! 

William Shakespeare. 




FRIEDRICH VOX vSCHILLER. 




JOHANX VON GOETHE. 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 



61 



\^iiy^h. ,/f /'■'■'^ 




S 



WINTER SONG. 

FROM THE GERMAN. 

UMMER joys are o'er; 

Flowerets bloom no more, 
Wintry winds are sw-eeping ; 
Through the snow-drifts peeping 
Cheerful evergreen 
Rarely now is seen. 



Now no plumed throng 

Charms the wood with song ; 
Ice-bound trees are glittering; 
Merry snow-birds, twittering, 

Fondly strive to cheer 

Scenes so cold and drear. 

Winter, still I see 

Many charms in thee, — 
Love thy chilly greeting, 
Snow-storms fiercely beating, 

And the dear delights 

Of the long, long nights. 

Charles T. Brooks. 

CAPE-COTTAGE AT SUNSET. 

E stood upon the ragged rocks, 

When the long day was nearly done; 
The waves had ceased their sullen shocks. 
And lapped our feet with murmuring tone. 
And o'er the bay in streaming locks 
Blew the red tresses of the sun. 

Along the west the golden bars 

Still to a deeper glory grew ; 
Above our heads the faint, few stars 

Looked out from the unfathomed blue ; 
And the fair city's clamorous jars 

Seem melted in that evening hue. 

sunset sky ! O purple tide ! 

O friends' to friends that closer pressed ! 
Those glories have in darkness died, 
.A.nd ye have left my longing breast. 

1 could not keep you by my side, 

Nor fix that radiance in the west. 

W. B. Glazier. 



62 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 



THE BOBOLINK. 

I OROLINK ! that in the meadow, 
Or beneath the orchard's shadow, 
Keepest up a constant rattle 
Joyous as my cliildren's prattle, 
Welcome to the north again ! 




Welcome to mine ear thy strain, 
Welcome to mine eye the sight 
Of thy buff, thy black and white. 
Brighter plumes may greet the sun, 
By the banks of Amazon ; 
Sweeter tones may weave the spell 
Of enchanting Philomel; 
But the tropic bird would fail, 



A 



And the English nightingale. 
If we should compare their worth 
With thine endless, gushing mirth. 

When the ides of May are past, 
June and siunmer nearing fast, 
While from depths of blue above 
Comes the mighty breath of love. 
Calling out each bud and flower 
With resistless, secret power — 
^Vaking hope and fond desire, 
Kindling the erotic lire — 
Filling youths' and maidens' dreams 
With mysterious, pleasing themts; 
Then, amid the sunlight clear 
Floating in the fragrant air, 
Thou dost fill each heart with pleasure 
By thy glad ecstatic measure. 

A single note, so sweet and low, 
Like a full heart's overflow, 
Forms the prelude; but the strain 
Gives no such tone again. 
For the wild and .saucy song 
Leap.j and skips the notes among, 
With such quick and sportive jilay, 
Ne'er was madder, merrier lay. 

Gayest songster of the spring ! 
Thy melodies before me bring 
Visions of some dream-built land. 
Where, by constant zephyrs fanned, 
I might walk the livelong da_\', 
Embosomed in pcrjietual May. 
Nor care nor fear thy bosom knows; 
For thee a tempest never blows ; 
But when our northern summer's o'er. 
By Delaware's or Schuylkill's shore 
The wild rice lifts its airy head. 
And royal feasts for thee are spread. 
And when the winter threatens there. 
Thy tireless wings yet own no fear, 
But bear thee to more southern coasts, 
Far beyond the reach of frosts. 

Bobolink! still may thy gladness 
Take from me all taints of sadness; 
Fill my soul with trust unshaken 
In that Being who has taken 
Care for every living thing, 
In summer, winter, fall and spring. 

Thomas Hill. 

PERSEVERANCE. 

SWALLOW in tlie spring 
Came to our granary, and 'neath the eaves 
Essayed to make a nest, and there did bring 

Wet earth and straw and leaves. 



Day after day she toiled 
With patient art, but ere her work was crowned. 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 



C3 



Some sad mishap the tiny fabric spoiled, 
And dashed it to the ground. 

She found the ruin wrought, 
But not cast down, forth from the place she flew, 
And with her mate from fresh earth and grasses 
brought 

And built her nest anew. 

But scarcely had she placed 
The last soft feather on its ample floor, 
When wicked hand, or chance, again laid waste 

And wrought the ruin o'er. 

But still her lieart she kept, 
And toiled again — and la^t night, hearing calls, 
I looked — and lo ! three little swallows slept 

AVithin the earth-made walls. 

What truth is here, O man ! 
Hath hope been smitten in its early dawn ^ 
Have clouds o'ercast thy purpose, trust, or plan? 
Have faith, and struggle on ! 

R. S. S. Andros. 



THE STORMY PETREL. 




from 



THOUSAND miks 

land are we. 
Tossing about on the stormy 

sea — 
From billow to bounding 

billow cast, 
Lilk fleecy snow on the 
stormy blast. 
The sails are scattered abroad like weeds ; 
The strong masts shake like quivering reeds; 
The mighty cables and iron chains, 
The hull, which all earthly strength disdains — 
They strain and they crack : and hearts 1 



ke 



stone 
Their natural. 



hard, proud strength disown. 



Up and down ! — up and down ! 

From the base of the wave to the billow's crown. 

And amidst the flashing and feathery foam 

The stormy petrel finds a home — 

A home, if such a place may be 

For her who lives on the wide, wide sea, 

On the craggy ice, in the frozen air, 

And only seeketh her rocky lair 

To warm her young, and to te.ich them to 

spring 
At once o'er the waves on their stormy wing! 

O'er the deep! — o'er the deep I 

Where the whale and the shark and the swordfish 

slee]5 — 
Outflying the blast and the driving rain. 
The petrel telleth her tale— in vain; 



For the mariner curseth the warning bird 
Which bringeth him news of the storm unheard ! 
Ah ! thus does the prophet of good or ill 
Meet hate from the creatures he serveth still; 
Yet he ne'er falters — so, petrel, spring 
Once more e'er the waves on, thy stormy wirg ! 

Barry Cornwall. 

THE PELICAN. 

ERELONG the thriving brood outgrew their 
cradle, 
Ran through the grass, and dabbled in the 

pools ; 
No sooner denizens of earth than made 
Free both of air and water ; day by day, 
New lessons, exercises, and amusements 
Employed the old to teach, the young to learn. 
Now floating on the blue lagoon beholding them ; 
The sire and dam in swan-like beauty steering. 
Their cygnets following through the foamy wake. 
Picking the leaves of plants, pursuing insects. 
Or catching at the bubbles as they broke : 
Till on some minor fry, in reedy shallow s. 
With flapping pinions and unsparing beaks 
The well-taught scholars plied their double art. 
To fish in troubled waters, and secure 
The petty captives in their maiden pouches; 
Then hurried with their banquet to the shore. 
With feet, wings, breast, half swimming and half 

flying. 

But when their pens grew strong to fight the 

storm. 
And buffet with the breakers on the reef, 
The parents put them to severe reproof; 
On beetling rocks the little ones were mar- 
shalled ; 
There, by endearments, stripes, example, urged 
To try the void convexity of heaven. 
And plough the ocean's horizontal field. 
Timorous at first they fluttered round the verge. 
Balanced and furled their hesitating wings. 
Then put them forth again with steadier aim ; 
Now, gaining courage as they felt the wind 
Dilate their feathers', till their airy frames 
With buoyancy that bore them from their feet, 
They yielded all their burdens to the breeze, 
And sailed and soared where'er their guardians 

led; 
Ascending, hovering, wheeling, or alighting. 
They searched the deep in quest of nobler game 
Than yet their inexperience had encountered ; 
With these thev battled in that element. 
Where wings or fins were equally at home. 
Till, conquerors in many a desperate strife. 
They dragged their spoils to land, and gorged at 
leisure. 

James Montgomery. 



64 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 



CASCO BAY. 




OWHERE, fairer, sweeter, rarer, 

Does the golden-locked fruit-bearer, 
Through his painted woodlands stray, 
Than where hill-side oaks and beeches 
Overlook the long blue reaches, 
Silver coves and pebbled beaches 

And green isles of Casco Bay ; 

Nowhere day, for delay. 
With a tenderer look beseeches, 

" Let me with my charmed earth stay." 

On the grainlands of the mainlands 
Stands the serried corn like train-bands. 

Plume and pennon rustling gay ; 
Out at sea, the islands wooded, 
Silver birches, golden-hooded. 
Set with maples, crimson-blooded. 

White sea-foam and sand-hills gray, 

Stretch away, far away, 
Dim and dreary, over-brooded 

By the hazy autumn day. 

Gayly chattering to the clattering 

Of the brown nuts downward pattering, 

Leap the squirrels red and gray. 
On the grass-land, on the fallow, 
Drfip the apples, red and yellow. 
Drop the russet i)ears and mellow. 

Drop the red leaves all the day, — 

And away, swift away. 
Sun and cloud, o'er hill and hollow 

Chasing, weave their web of play. 

John G. Whittier. 



LILACS. 



F.\IR, purple children of the sun, 
I pet your blossoms one by one, 
Glance looks of love into your eyes, 
Your perfume breathe, your beauty prize. 



Hold your sweet clusters to my view, 
Cool my warm blushes with your dew, 
.^nd evening, morning, and at noon, 
Mourn that your tints are gone so soon. 

Henry Davenport. 




BLOSSOMS AND PERFUME. 



65 



66 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 



FLOWERS. 

SPAKE full well, in language quaint and olden, 
One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, 
When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, 
Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine. 



Not alone in spring's armorial bearing, 
And in summer's green-emblazoned field. 

But in arms of brave old autumn's wearing. 
In the centre of his brazen shield; 




Hf%')0'' 



Stars they are, wherein we read our history, 
As astrologers and seers of eld ; 

Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery, 
Like the burning stars, which they beheld. 

Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, 
God hath written in those stars above; 

But not less in the bright flowerets under us 
Stands the revelation of his love. 

Everywhere about us they are glowing. 
Some like stars, to tell us spring is born; 

Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing, 
Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn ; 



Not alone in meadows and green alleys, 
On the mountain-top, and by the brink 

Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys. 
Where the slaves of nature stoop to drink ; 

Not alone in her vast dome of glory. 
Not on graves of bird and beast alone, 

But in old cathedrals high and hoary, 

On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone; 

In the cottage of the rudest peasant, 

In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers. 

Speaking of the past unto the present, 
Tell us of the ancient games of flowers. 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 



67 



In all places, then, and in all seasons, 

Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, 

Teaching us, by most jiersuasive reasons. 
How akin they are to human things. 



And with childlike, credulous affection 
We behold their tender buds expand ; 

Emblems of our own great resurrection, 
Emblems of the bright and better land. 

H. W. Longfellow. 




c 



A SCENE ON THE HUDSON. 



OOL shades and dews are round my way, 
And silence of the early day; 
Mid the dark rocks that watch his bed, 
Glitters the mighty Hudson spread, 
Unrippled, save by drops that fall 
From shrubs that fringe his mountain wall; 
And o'er the clear, still waters swells 
The music of the Sabbath bells. 

All, save this little nook of land 
Circled with trees, on which I stand ; 
All, save that line of hills which lie 
Suspended in the mimic sky — 
Seems a blue void, above, below. 
Through which the white clouds come and go, 
And from the green world's farthest steep 
I gaze into the airy deep. 



Loveliest of lovely things are they, 
On earth, that soonest pass away. 
The rose that lives its little hour 
Is prized beyond the sculptured flower. 
Even love, long tried and cherished long, 
Becomes more tender and more strong, 
.^.t thought of that insatiate grave 
From which its yearnings cannot save. 

River! in this still hour thou hast 
Too much of heaven on earth to last; 
Nor long may thy still waters lie, 
An image of the glorious sky. 
Thy fate and mine are not repose, 
And ere another evening close, 
Thou to thy tides shalt turn again. 
And I to seek the crowd of men. 

W. C. Bryant. 



P 



PACK CLOUDS AWAY. 



ACK clouds away, and welcome day. 
With night we banish sorrow ; 
Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft. 
To give my love good morrow. 

Wings from the wind to please her mind, 
Notes from the lark I'll borrow: 

Bird, prune thy wing; nightingale, sing. 
To give my love good morrow. 
To give my love good morrow. 
Notes from them all I'll borrow. 



Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast. 

Sing, birds, in every furrow; 
And from each hill let music shrill 

Give my fair love good morrow. 
Blackbird and thrush in every bush, 

Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow. 
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves. 

Sing my fair love good morrow. 

To give my love good morrow. 

Sing birds in every furrow. T. Heywood. 



OUR GREAT PLAINS. 



THESE plains are made up, to a great extent, of rolling 
prairies, seemingly as bovmdless as the sea, over 
which millions of buffalo once roamed wild and 
fearless, but which are fast dwindling to timid, 
watchful, wary herds, ever scenting danger, and taking flight 
at the approach of man. 

Room ! Room to turn round in, to breathe and be 

free. 
And to grow to be giant, to sail as at sea 
With the speed of the wind on a steed with his mane 
To the wind, without pathway or route or a rein. 



Room ! Room to be free where the white-bordered sea 
Blows a kiss to a brother as boundless as he ; 
And to east and to west, to the north and the sun, 
Blue skies and brown grasses are welded as one. 
And the buffalo come like a cloud on the plain. 
Pouring on like the tide of a storm-driven main. 
And the lodge of the hunter, to friend or to foe 
Offers rest ; and unquestioned you come or you go. 
Vast plains of America! Seas of wild lands! 
I turn to you, lean to you, lift up my hands. 

Joaquin Miller. 



€S 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 



B 



A DREAM OF SUMMER. 

LAND as the morning breath of June 
The southwest breezes play ; 
And, through its haze, the winter noon 
Seems warm as summer's day. 











The snow-plumed angel of the North 
Has dropped his icy spear ; 

Again the mossy earth looks forth, 
Again the streams gush clear. 

The fox his hill-side cell forsakes, 
The muskrat leaves his nook. 

The bluebird in the meadow brakes 
Is singing with the brook. 



Bear up, oh mother nature !" cry 
Bird, breeze, and streamlet free; 

Our winter voices prophesy 
Of summer days to thee!" 

So, in those winters of the soul, 

By bitter blasts and drear 
O'erswept from memory's frozen 
pole. 
Will sunny days appear. 
Reviving hope and faith, they show 

The soul its living powers. 
And how, beneath the winter's snow, 
Lie germs of summer flowers ! 

The night is mother of the day, 

The winter of the spring, 
And ever upon old decay 

The greenest mosses cling. 
Behind the cloud the starlight lurks. 
Through showers the sunbeams 
fall; 
For God, who loveth all his works, 
Has left his hope with all ! 

John G. Whittier. 

THE GREAT HORSE-SHOE CURVE. 

A BRIEF stop is made at Altoona Station, 
and then, with all steam on, the giant 
locomotive at the head of your train 
begms the ascent of the heaviest grade on the 
line. The valley beside you sinks lower and 
lower, until it becomes a vast gorge, the bot- 
tom of which is hidden by impenetrable gloom. 
Far in the depths cottages appear for a moment, 
only to disappear in the darkness, and then, 
jubt as night is falling, you begin the circuit 
of the world-famous Horse-shoe Curve, the 
most stupendous piece of engineering ever 
accomplished ; the wonder and admiration of 
travelers from the four corners of the globe ; the 
one feature of American railroad construction that 
you have been told required the utmost courage to 
attempt, and the most miraculous skill to achieve. 
And now, as the enormous bend, sweeping first 
north, then curving westward, and still curving 
away to the south again, presents itself to your 
view, you confess that you did not begin to esti- 
mate its grandeur. An eagle soars majestically 
away from some crag above your head, and floats 
with extended wings over the gulch that makes 
your brain reel as you glance downward, so deep 
is it. 

The clouds into which you are climbing bend 
low and hide the rugged top of the mountain to 
whose beetling side you are clinging, forming a 
whitish-gray canopy that extends half-way across 
the dizzy chasm. It is all so large, so grand, so 
majestic, that you admit that your imagination has 
been unequal to the task of picturing it. 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 



69 



SONQ TO MAY. 




In the green bowers ? 



AY, queen of blossoms, 

And fulfilling flowers, 

With what pretty music. 

Shall we charm the 

hours ? 

Wilt thou have pipe and 

reed. 
Blown in the open 

mead ? 
Or to the lute give heed. 



THE WOOD. 

"\ X TTTCH-HAZEL, dogwood, and the maple 

And there the oak and hickory ; 
Linn, poplar, and the beech tree, far and near 
As the eased eye can see. 

Wild ginger, wahoo, with its roan balloons ; 

And brakes of briers of a twilight green ; 
And fox grapes plumed with summer ; and strung 
moons 

Of mandrake flower between. 



r" 



-j«»ifc>t^ 








Thou hast no need of us, 

Or pipe or wire ; 
Thou hast the golden bee 

Ripened with fire; 
And many thousand more 
Songsters, that thee adore, 
Filling earth's grassy floor 

With new desire. 

Thou hast thy mighty herds. 

Tame, and free-livers; 
Doubt not, thy music too 

In the deep rivers ; 
And the whole plumy flight 
Warbling the day and night — 
Up at the gates of light, 
See, the lark quivers ! 

Edward, Lord Thurlow. 



Deep gold-green ferns, and mosses red and gray • 

Mats for what naked myth's white feet? 

And cool and calm, a cascade far away. 
With ever-falling beat 

Old logs made sweet with death ; rough bits of bark: 
And tangled twig and knotted root ; 

And sunshine splashes, and great pools of dark; 
And many a wild bird's flute. 

Here let me sit until the Indian dusk 
With copper-colored feet comes down ; 

Sowing the wildwood with star-fire and musk. 
And shadows blue and brown. 

Then side by side with some magician dream 

To take the owlet-haunted lane. 
Half-roofed with vines ; led by a firefly gleam. 

That brings me home again. 

Madison Cawein. 



70 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 



OSME'S SONG. 

HITHER ! hither ! 
O come hither ! 
Lads and lasses come and see ! 
Trip it neatly, 
Foot it featly, 
O'er the grassy turf to me ! 



Odorous blossoms 

For sweet bosoms, 
Garlands green to bind the hair ; 

Crowns and kirtles 

Weft of myrtles, 
You may choose, and beauty wear ! 




Here are bowers 

Hung with flowers. 
Richly curtained halls for you ! 

Meads for rovers, 

Shades for lovers, 
Violet beds, and pillows too ! 

Purple heather 

You may gather, 
Sandal-deep in seas of bloom ! 

Pale-faced lily. 

Proud Sweet-Willy, 
Gorgeous rose, and golden broom ! 



Brightsome glasses 

For bright faces 
Shine in ev'ry rill that flows; 

Every minute 

You look in it 
Still more bright your beauty grows I 

Hither ! hither ! 

O come hither ! 
Lads and lasses come and see ! 

Trip it neatly. 

Foot it featly. 
O'er the grassy turf to me ! 

George Darley. 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 



71 



THE RIVULET. 




\HIS little rill that from the 

springs 
Of yonder grove its current 

brings, 
Plays on the slope a while, 

and then 
Goes prattling into groves 

again, 
Oft to its warbling 

waters drew 
My little feet, when life was new. 
When woods in early green were dressed, 
And from the chambers of the west 
The warmer breezes, travelling out, 
Breathed the new scent of flowers about, 
My truant steps from home would stray, 
Upon its grassy side to play, 
List the brown thrasher's vernal hymn. 
And crop the violet on its brim. 
With blooming cheek and open brow. 
As young and gay, sweet rill, as thou. 

And when the days of boyhood came. 
And I had grown in love with fame. 
Duly I sought thy banks, and tried 
My first rude numbers by thy side. 
Words cannot tell how bright and gay 
The scenes of life before me lay. 
Then glorious hopes, that now to speak 
Would bring the blood into my cheek. 
Passed o'er me ; and I wrote on high, 
A name I deemed should never die. 

Years change thee not. Upon yon hill 
The tall old maples, verdant still, 
Yet tell, in grandeur of decay. 
How swift the years have passed away, 
Since first, a child, and half afraid, 
I wandered in the forest shade. 
Thou ever joyous rivulet. 
Dost dimple, leap, and prattle yet ; 
And sporting with the sands that pave 
The windings of thy silver wave. 
And dancing to thy own wild chime, 
Thou laughest at the lapse of time. 
The same sweet sounds are in my ear. 
My early childhood loved to hear; 
As pure thy limpid waters run. 
As bright they sparkle to the sun ; 
As fresh and thick the bending ranks 
Of herbs that line thy oozy banks ; 
The violet there, in soft May dew. 
Comes up, as modest and as blue ; 
As green amid thy current's stress. 
Floats the scarce-rooted water-cress : 
And the brown ground-bird, in thy glen. 
Still chirps as merrily as then. 



Thou changest not — but I am changed, 
Since first thy pleasant banks I ranged ; 
And the grave stranger, come to see 
The play-place of his infancy. 
Has scarce a single trace of him 
Who sported once upon thy brim. 
The visions of my youth are past — 
Too bright, too beautiful to last. 




And I shall sleep — and on thy side, 
As ages after ages glide. 
Children their early sports shall try. 
And pass to hoary age and die. 
But thou, unchanged from year to year, 
Gayly shalt play and glitter here ; 
Amid young flowers and tender grass 
Thy endless infancy shalt pass; 
And, singing down thy narrow glen, 
Shalt mock the fading race of men. 

W. C. Bryant. 



72 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 



V 



THE NIGHTINGALE. 

kRIZE thou the nightingale, 
Who soothes thee with his tale, 
And wakes the woods around ; 
A singing feather he— a winged and wandering 
sound; 

Whose tender carolling 
Sets all ears listening 
Unto that living lyre, 
Whence flow the airy notes his ecstasies inspire ; 

Whose shrill, capricious song 
Breathes like a flute along, 
With many a careless tone — 



Come, summer visitant, attach 

To my reed-roof your nest of clay, 
And let my ear your music catch. 
Low twittering underneath the thatch. 
At the gray dawn of day. 

As fables tell, an Indian sage. 

The Hindustani woods among. 
Could in his desert hermitage. 
As if 'twere marked in written page, 
Translate the wild bird's song. 

I wish I did his power possess. 

That I might learn, fleet bird, from thee. 
What our vain systems only guess. 




Music of thousand tongues, formed by one tongue 
alone. 

O charming creature rare ! 
Can aught with thee compare ? 
Thou art all song — thy breast 
Thrills for one month o' the year— is tranquil all 
the rest. 

Thee wondrous we may call — 
Most wondrous this of all. 
That such a tiny throat 
Should wake so loud a sound, and pour so loud a 
note. John Bowring. 



T 



THE SWALLOW. 

HE gorse is yellow on the heath, 

The banks with speedwell flowers are gay, 
The oaks are budding ; and beneath, 
The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath, 
The silver wreath of May. 



The welcome guest of settled spring. 
The swallow, too, is come at last ; 
Just at sunset, when thrushes sing, 
I saw her dash with rapid wing, 
And hailed her as she passed. 



And know from what wild wilderness 
You came across the sea. 

Charlotte Smith, 

THE EARLY PRIMROSE. 

MILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire ! 
Whose modest form, so delicately fine. 
Was nursed in whirling storms 
And cradled in the winds. 
Thee, when young spring first questioned winter's 

sway. 
And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight,, 
Thee on this bank he threw 
To mark his victory. 

In this low vale the promise of the year. 
Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale. 

Unnoticed and alone, 

Thy tender elegance. 

So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms; 
Of chill adversity ; in some lone walk 

Of life she rears her head. 

Obscure and unobserved ; 

While every bleaching breeze that on her blows 
Chastens her spotless purity of breast. 

And hardens her to bear 

Serene the ills of life. 

Henrv Kirke White, 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 



73 



THE FATHER OF WATERS. 

Not only in the extent of fertile territory diamed, but in ] The fount of fable and the source of SOng ; 

The rushing Rhone, in whose cerulean depths 



the vast flood of waters which it carries down to the Gulf, 
the Mississippi has no equal among the rivers of Europe, 



AY, gather Europe's royal rivers all — 
The snow-swelled Neva, with an empire's 
weight 
On her broad breast, she yet may overwhelm ; 
Dark Danube, hurrying, as by foe pursued. 
Through shaggy forests and from jjalace walls, 
To hide its terrors in a sea of gloom ; 
The castled Rhine, whose vine-crowned waters flow. 



The loving sky seeins wedded with the wave; 
The yellow Tiber, choked with Roman spoils, 
A dying miser shrinking 'neath his gold ; 
And Seine, where fashion glasses fairest forms; 
And Thames, that bears the riches of the world ; 
Gather their waters in one ocean mass — 
Our Mississippi, rolling proudly on. 
Would sweep them from its path, or swallow up, 
Like Aaron's rod, these streams of fame and song, 

Sarah J. Hale. 
BUTTERFLY BEAU. 



I'M a volatile thing, with an exquisite wing, 
Sprinkled o'er with the tints of the rainbow ; 
All the Butterflies swarm to behold my sweet 
form, 
Though the Grubs may all vote me a vain beau. 
I my toilet go through, with my rose-water dew. 

And each blossom contributes its essence ; 
Then all fragrance and grace, not a plume out of 
place, 
I adorn the gay world with my presence — 
In short, you must know, 
I'm the Butterfly Beau. 

At first I enchant a fair Sensitive plant. 
Then I flirt with the Pink of perfection; 

Then I seek a Sweet Pea, and I whisper, "For 
thee 
I have long felt a fond predilection." 



A Lily I kiss, and exult in my bliss. 

But I very soon search for a new lip ; 
And I pause in my flight to exclaim with delight, 
" Oh! how dearly I love you, my Tulip !" 
In short, you must know, 
I'm the Butterfly Beau. 

Thus for ever I rove, and the honey of love 

From each delicate blossom I pilfer ; 
But though many I see pale and pining for me, 
I know none that are worth growing ill for ; 
And though I must own, there are some that I've 
known. 
Whose external attractions are splendid ; 
On myself I most doat, for in my pretty coat 
All the tints of the garden are blended — 
In short, you must know, 
I'm the Butterfly Beau. T. Havnes Bayly, 



THE OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN. 



On Mount Cannon, or Profile Mountain, opposite Lafay- 
ette, west of the Notch, in the White Mountains, and 1,500 
feet above the road, are three projecting rocl<s, that, viewed 
from a particular point, assume a well defined profile of a 
colossal human face eighty feet long, with firmly drawn chin, 
lips slightly parted, and a well-proportioned nose, surmounted 
by a massive brow. Hence the mountain is called " Profile 
Mountain," and to this interesting intimation of a human 
countenance tliat sudtlenly disappears when the observer 
moves, has been given the above appropriate title. 

A GLORY smites the craggy heights : 
And in a halo of the haze. 
Flushed with faint gold, far up, behold 
That mighty face, that stony gaze ! 
In the wild sky upborne so high 
Above us perishable creatures, 
Confronting time with those sublime. 
Impassive, adamantine features. 

Thou beaked and bald high front, miscalled 

The profile of a human face ! 
No kin art thou, O Titan brow, 

To puny man's ephemeral race. 
The groaning earth to thee gave birth, — 

Throes and convulsions of the planet ; 
Lonely uprose, in grand repose, 

Those eighty feet of facial granite. 



We may not know how long ago 

That ancient countenance was young ; 
Thy sovereign brow was seamed as now 

When Moses wrote and Homer sung. 
Empires and states it antedates. 

And wars, and arts, and crime, and glory ; 
In that dim morn when man was born 

Thy head with centuries was hoary. 

Canst thou not tell what then befell ? 

What forces moved, or fast or slow; 
How grew the hills ; what heats, what chills ; 

What strange, dim life, so long ago? 
High-visaged peak, wilt thou not speak 

One word, for all our learned wrangle? 
What earthquakes shaped, what glaciers scraped 

That nose, and gave the chin its angle ? 

silent speech, that well can teach 
The little worth of words or fame ! 

1 go my way, but thou wilt stay 

While future millions pass the same: — 
But what is this I seem to miss ? 

Those features fall into confusion ! 
A further pace — where was that face ? 

The veriest fugitive illusion ! 



74 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 



O Titan, how dislimned art thou ! 

A withered cliff is all we see ; 
That giant nose, that grand repose, 

Have in a moment ceased to be ; 



Or still depend on lines that blend. 

On merging shapes, and sight, and distance, 

And in the mind alone can find 
Imaginary brief existence ! 

John T. Trowbridge. 




AFTER SUMMER. 



w 



E'LL not weep for summer over, 
No, not we ; 
Strew above his head the clover, 
Let him be ! 



Other eyes may weep his dying, 

Shed their tears 
There upon him where he's lying 

With his peers. 

Shall we in our tombs, I wonder, 

Far apart. 
Sundered wide as seas can sunder 

Heart from heart. 



Dream at all of all the sorrows 

That were ours — 
Bitter nights, more bitter morrows ; 

Poison-flowers 

Summer gathered, as in madness, 
Saying, "See. 
These are yours, in place of gladness — 
Gifts from me !" 

Nay, the rest that will be ours 

Is supreme — 
And below the poppy flowers 

Steals no dream. P. B. Marston. 




THE DAINTY ROSE. 



I WILL not have the mad Clytie, 
Whose head is turned by the sun; 
The tulip is a courtly queen, 
Whom, therefore, I will shun ; 
The cowslip is a country wench, 

The violet is a nun — 
But I will woo the dainty rose, 
The queen of every one. 

The pea is but a wanton witch, 

In too much haste to wed. 
And clasps her rings on every hand ; 

The wolfsbane I should dread — 



Nor will I dreary rosemary, 

That always mourns the dead — 
But I will woo the dainty rose. 

With her cheeks of tender red. 

The lily is all in white, like a saint. 

And so is no mate for me — 
And the daisy's cheek is tipped with a blush, 

She is of such low degree; 
Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves. 

And the broom's betrothed to the bee — 
But I will plight with the dainty rose. 

For fairest of all is she. Thomas Hood, 




FLORAL BEAUTIES. 



10 



76 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 



o 



SNOWDROPS. 

DARLING spirits of the snow, 

Wiio liide within your heart the green, 
Howe'er the wintry wind may blow. 
The secret of the summer slieen 
Ye smile to know ! 

By frozen rills, in woods and mead, 

A mild pure sisterhood ye grow. 
Who bend the meek and quiet head, 



The ever-varying brilliancy and grandeur of the 
landscape, and the magnificence of the sky, sun, 
moon and stars, enter more extensively into the 
enjoyment of mankind than we, perhaps, ever 
think, or can possibly apprehend, without frequent 
and extensive investigation. This beauty and 
splendor of the objects around us, it is ever to be 
remembered, are not necessary to their existence, 
nor to what we commonly intend by their useful- 
ness. It is, therefore, to be regarded as a source 




S-iL^>_- -i^ii- '. .'.■w'_i:'c£l>.-f.*_y;;i=::::35^5^. 



And are a token from below 
From our dear dead ; 

As in their turf ye softly shine 

Of innocent white lives they lead, 
With healing influence divine 
For souls who on their memory feed. 
World-worn like mine. 

RoDEN Noel. 

PLEASURE DERIVED FROM NATURE. 

WERE all the interesting diversities of color 
and form to disappear, how unsightly, 
dull and wearisome would be the aspect 
of the world ! The pleasures conveyed 
to us by the endless varieties with which these 
sources of beauty are presented to the eye, are so 
much things of course, and exist so much without 
intermission, that we scarcely think either of their 
nature, their number or the great proportion which 
they constitute in the whole mass of our enjoy- 
ment. 

But were an inhabitant of this country to be re- 
moved from its delightful scenery to the midst of 
an Arabian desert, a boundless expanse of sand, a 
waste spread with uniform desolation, enlivened 
by the murmur of no stream and cheered by the 
beauty of no verdure, although he might live in a 
palace and riot in splendor and luxury, he would, 
I think, find life a dull, wearisome, melancholy 
round of existence, and amid all his gratifications 
would sigh for the hills and valleys of his native 
land, the brooks and rivers, the living lustre of 
the spring, and the rich glories of the autumn. 



of pleasure gratuitously supermduced upon the 
general nature of the objects themselves, and in 
this light as a testimony of the divine goodness 
peculiarly affecting. 

Timothy Dwight. 

AN ITALIAN SUNSET. 

IT was one of those evenings never to be forgot- 
ten by a painter — but one too which must 
come upon him in misery as a gorgeous mock- 
ery. The sun was yet up, and resting on the 
highest peak of a ridge of mountain-shaped clouds, 
that seemed to make a part of the distance ; sud- 
denly he disappeared, and the landscape was over- 
spread with a cold, lurid hue; then, as if molten 
in a furnace, the fictitious mountains began to 
glow; in a moment more they tumbled asunder ; 
in another he was seen again, piercing their frag- 
ments, and darting his shafts to the remotest east, 
till, reaching the horizon, he appeared to recall 
them, and with a parting flash to wrap the whole 
heavens in flame. 

Washington Allston. 

VALLEY OF THE HUDSON. 

AND how changed is the scene from that on 
which Hudson gazed ! The earth glows 
with the colors of civilization ; the banks 
of the streams are enamelled with richest 
grasses ; woodlands and cultivated fields are har- 
moniously blended ; the birds of spring find their 
delight in orchards and trim gardens, variegated 
with choicest plants from every temperate zone ; 
while the brilliant flowers of the tropics bloom 




li;i.je».-«ES. 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE, 



77 



from the windows of the greenhouse and the 
saloon. 

The yeoman, living like a good neighbor near 
the fields he cultivated, glories in the fruitfulness 
of the valleys, and counts with honest exultation 
the flocks and herds that browse in safety on the 
hills. The thorn has given way to the rosebush ; 
the cultivated vine clambers over rocks where the 
brood of serpents used to nestle ; while industry 
smiles at the changes she has wrought, and inhales 
the bland air which now has health on its wings. 



George Bancroft. 



Therefore from such danger lock 
Every one his loved flock; 
And let your dogs lie loose without, 
Lest the wolf come as a scout 
From the mountain, and ere day. 
Bear a lamb or kid away ; 
Or the crafty, thievish fox. 
Break upon your simple flocks. 

To secure yourself from these, 
Be not too secure in ease; 
So shall you good shepherds prove. 
And deserve your master's love. 



THE MOSS ROSE. 




THE angel of the flowers, 
one day. 
Beneath a rose-tree 
sleeping lay — 
That spirit to whose charge 

't is given 
To bathe young buds in dews 

of heaven. 
Awaking from his light re- 
pose, 
The angel whispered to the 

rose: 
"O fondest object of my care, 
Still fairest found, where all are fair: 
For the sweet shade thou giv'st to me 
Ask what thou wilt, 't is granted thee." 

" Then," said the rose, with deepened glow, 
" On me another grace bestow." 
The spirit paused, in silent thought — 
What grace was there that flower had not ? 
'T was but a moment — o'er the rose 
A veil of moss the angel throws. 
And, robed in nature's simjilest weed. 
Could there a flower that rose exceed ? 

F. W. Krummacher. 

FOLDING THE FLOCKS. 

SHEPHERDS all, and maidens fair, 
Fold your flocks up ; for the air 
'Gins to thicken, and the sun 
Already his great course hath run. 
See the deudrops, how they kiss 
Every little flower that is ; 
Hanging on their velvet heads. 
Like a string of crystal beads. 

See the heavy clouds low falling 
And bright Hesperus down calling 
The dead night from underground j 
At whose rising, mists unsound. 
Damps and vapors, fly apace, 
And hover o'er the smiling face 
Of these pastures ; where thev come, 
Striking dead both bud and bloom. 







Now, good-night ! may sweetest slumbers 
And soft silence fall in numbers 
On your eyelids. So farewell : 
Thus I end my evening knell. 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 

BUTTERFLY LIFE. 

WHAT, though you tell me each gay little 
rover 
Shrinks from the breath of the first 
autumn day ! 
Surely 'tis better, when summer is over. 

To die when all fair things are fading away. 
Some in life's winter may toil to discover 

Means of procuring a weary delay — 
I' be a butterfly ; living, a rover, 

Dying when fair things are fiding aw.nv ! 

T. H.vNF'; Favlv. 



78 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 



THE VERNAL SEASON. 

THANK Providence for spring ! The earth— 
and man himself, by sympathy with his 
birthplace — would be far other than we find 
them, if life toiled wearily onward, without this 
periodical infusion of the primal spirit. Will the 




time sprightliness ! From such a soul the world 
must hope no reformation of its evil — no sympathy 
with the lofty faith and gallant struggles of those 
who contend in its behalf Summer works in the 
present, and thinks not of the future; autumn is a 
rich conservcitive ; winter has utterly lost its faith, 
and clings tremulously to the 
remembrance of what has been ; 
but spring, with its outgushing 
life, is the true type of the 
movement. 
Nathaniel Hawthorne. 

THE SONGSTERS. 



U" 



world ever be so decayed that spring may not re- 
new its greenness ? Can man be so dismally age- 
stricken that no faintest sunshine of his youth may 
revisit him once a year ? It is impossible. The 
moss on our time-worn mansion brightens into 
beauty ; the good old pastor, who once dwelt 
here, renewed his prime, regained his boyhood, in 
the genial breezes of his ninetieth spring. 

Alas for the worn and heavy soul, if, whether in 
youth or age, it have outlived its privilege of spring- 



P SPRINGS the lark, 
Shrill-voiced and loud, 
the messenger of morn; 
Ere yet the shadows fly, he 

mounted sings 
Amid the dawning clouds, and 

from their haunts 
Calls up the tuneful nations. 

Every copse 
Deep-tangled, tree irregular, 

and bush 
Bending with dewy moisture, 

o'er the heads 
Of the coy quiristers that lodge 

within, 
Are prodigal of harmony. The 

thrush 
And woodlark, o'er the kind- 
contending throng 
Superior heard, run through 

the sweets st length 
Of notes ; when listening Phil- 

omelia deigns 
To let tliem joy, and purposes, 

in thought 
Elate, to make f.er night excel 

their day. 

The blackbird whistles from 

the thorny brake ; 
The mellow bullfinch answers 

from the gro\e ; 
Nor are the linnets, o'er the 

flowering furze 
^r^" " Poured out profusely, silsrt : 

joined to tluse 
Innumerous songsters, in the freshening shade 
Of new-sprung leaves, their modulations nnv. 
Mellifluous. The jay, the rook, the daw, 
And each harsh pipe, discordant heard alone, 
Aid the full concert ; while the stockdove breathes 
A melancholy murmur through the whole. 
'Tis love creates their melody, and all 
This waste of music is the voice of love ; 
That even to birds and beasts the tender arts 
Of pleasing teaches. James Thomson. 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 



79' 




THE SPARROW. 

OBIN 1 love, the blue-bird and 
the wren, 
The thrush, the lark and many, 
many more ; 
But, oh, above them all, that 
friend of men 
I love, the sparrow piping at 
my door. 

When summer flees, and winter blusters forth 
With roaring blasts that shake the naked trees, 

Still you may hear above the legioned North 
A merry note above the coppices. 

The sparrow still doth pipe his little lay 
As sweetly as he piped it in the spring ; 

No migrant he, that quickly flies away 

When summer winds no longer round him sing. 

A hardy comrade, when the storms arise 

He breasts their fury like some honest friend, 

That, when adversity besets our skies, 

Doth quit us not, but cheers us to the end. 

So, when I hear the choir of summer sing, 
I listen, pleased, but hear above the art 

Of gayer birds the sparrow's note, and cling 
To it as something dearer to my heart. 

JoRis Von Linden. 

INDIAN SUMMER. 

WHEN leaves grow sear all things take 
sombre hue ; 
The wild \Vinds waltz no more the wood- 
side through, 
And all the faded grass is wet with dew. 

A gauzy nebula films the pensive sky, 

The golden bee supinely buzzes by, 

In silent flocks the blue-birds southward fly. 

The forests' cheeks are crimsoned o'er with shame, 

The cynic frost enlaces every lane, 

The ground with scarlet blushes is aflame ! 

The one we love grows lustrous-eyed and sad, 
With sympathy too thoughtful to be glad. 
While all the colors round are running mad. 

The sunbeams kiss askant the sombre hill, 
The naked woodbine climbs the window-sill. 
The breaths that noon exhales are faint and chill. 

The ripened nuts drop downward day by day, 
Sounding the hollow tocsin of decay, 
And bandit squirrels smuggle them away. 

Vague sighs and scents pervade the atmosphere, 
Sounds of invisible stirrings hum the ear. 
The morning's lash reveals a frozen tear. 

The hermit mountains gird themselves with mail. 
Mocking the threshers with an echo flail. 
The while the afternoons grow crisp and pale. 



Inconstant summer to the tropics flees. 

And, as her rose-sails catch the amorous breeze, 

Lo ! bare, brown autumn trembles to her knees ! 

The stealthy nights encroach upon the days, 
The earth with sudden whiteness is ablaze. 
And all her paths are lost in crystal maze ! 

Tread lightly where the dainty violets blew. 
Where the spring winds their soft eyes open flew ; 
Safely they sleep the churlish winter through. 

Though all life's portals are indiced with woe, 
And frozen pearls are all the world can show. 
Feel! Nature's breath is warm beneath the snow. 

Lookup! dear mourners! Still the blue expanse. 
Serenely tender, bends to catch thy glance. 
Within thy tears sibyllic sunbeams dance ! 

With blooms full sapped again will smile the land.. 
The fall is but the folding of His hand, 
x\non with fuller glories to expand. 

The dumb heart hid beneath the pulseless tree 
Will throb again ; and then the torpid bee 
Upon the ear will drone his drowsy glee. 

So shall the truant blue-birds backward fly. 
And all loved things that vanish or that die 
Return to us in some sweet by-and-by. 

VENICE AT NIGHT. 

THE moon was at the height. Its rays fell in 
a flood on the swelling domes and massive 
roofs of Venice, while the margin of the 
town was brilliantly defined by the glittering bay. 
The natural and gorgeous setting was more than 
worthy of that picture of human magnificence ; for 
at that moment, rich as was the queen of the Adri- 
atic in ner works of art, the grandeur of her pub- 
lic monuments, the number and splendor of her 
palaces, and most else that the ingenuity and am- 
bition of man could attempt, she was but secondary 
in the glories of the hour. 

Above was the firmament gemmed with worlds, 
and sublime in immensity. Beneath lay the broad 
expanse of the Adriatic, endless to the eye, tran- 
quil as the vault it reflected, and luminous with its 
borrowed light. Here and there a low island, re- 
claimed from the sea by the patient toil of a 
thousand years, dotted the Lagunes, burdened by 
the group of some conventual dwellings, or pic- 
turesque with the modest roofs of a hamlet of the 
fishermen. Neither oar, nor song, nor laugh, nor 
flap of sail, nor jest of mariner disturbed the still- 
ness. All in the near view was clothed in mid- 
night loveliness, and all in the distance bespoke 
the solemnity of nature at peace. The city and 
the Lagunes, the gulf and the dreamy Alps, the 
interminable plain of Lombardy, and the blue void 
of heaven lay alike in a common and grand repose. 
James Fenimore Cooper. 



80 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 



TO A MOUSE. 

ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH. 

WEE, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, 
O, what a panic's in thy breastie ! 
Thou need na start awa' sae hasty, 
Wi' bickering brattle ! 
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, 
Wi' murd'ring pattle ! 




I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
Has broken nature's social union, 
An' justifies that ill opinion 

Which makes thee startle 
At me, thy poor earth-born companion, 

An' fellow-mortal ! 

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve ; 
What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live ! 
A daimen icker in a thrave 

'S a sma' request ; 
I'll get a blessin' wi' the laive. 

And never miss 't I 



Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! 
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin' I 
An naething now to big a new ane 

O' foggage green ! 
An' bleak December's winds ensuin', 

Baith snell and keen ! 

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, 
An' weary winter comin' fast, 
An' cozie here, beneath the blast. 

Thou thought to dwell, 
Till, crash ! the cruel coulter past 

Out through thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble 
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! 

Vow thou' s turned out for 
a' thy trouble. 
But house or hald, 
1 1) thole the winter's 
sleety dribble, 
\n' cranreuch cauld ! 

r.ut, Mousie, thou art no 

thy lane. 
In proving foresight may 

be vain : 
I he best-laid schemes o' 

mice an' men 
Gang aft a-gley, 
An' lea'e us naught but 

grief and pain, 
For promised joy. 

Still thou art blest, compared wi' me ! 
The present only toucheth thee ; 
But, och! I backward cast my e'e 

On prospects drear ; 
An' forward, though I canna see, 

I guess an' fear. 

Robert Burns 

SUMMER WOODS. 

I LOVE at eventide to walk alone, 
Down narrow glens, o'erhung with dewy 
thorn. 
Where, from the long grass underneath, the snail. 
Jet black, creeps out, and sprouts his timid horn. 
I love to muse o'er meadows newly mown. 
Where withering grass perfumes the sultry air ; 
Where bees search round, with sad and weary 

drone. 
In vain, for flowers that bloomed bat newly there ; 
While in the juicy corn the hidden quail 
Cries, "Wet my foot;" and, hid as thoughts un- 
born. 
The fairy-like and seldom-seen land-rail 
Utters " Craik, craik," like voices underground, 
Right glad to meet the evening's dewy veil. 
And see the light fade into gloom around. 

John Clare. 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 



81 



B 



THE WEST WIND. 

ENEATH the forest's skirts I rest, 

Whose branching pines rise dark and high, 

And hear the breezes of the West 
Among the threaded foliage sigh. 



Sweet Zephyr ! why that sound of woe? 

Is not thy home among the flowers ? 
Do not the bright June roses blow, 

To meet thy kiss at morning hours? 

And lo ! thy glorious realm outspread — 
Von stretching valleys, green and gay, 

And yon free hill-tops, o'er whose head 
The loose white clouds are borne away. 

And there the full broad river runs. 

And many a fount wells fresh and sweet, 

To cool thee when the mid-day suns 

Have made thee faint beneath their heat. 

Thou wind of joy, and youth, and love; 

Spirit of the new-wakened year ! 
The sun in his blue realm above 

Smooths a bright path when thou art here. 

In lawns the murmuring bee is heard, 

The wooing ring-dove in the shade ; 

On thy soft breath, the new-fledged bird 

Takes wing, half happy, half afraid. 

Ah! thou art like our wayward race; — 
When not a shade of pain or ill 

Dims the bright smile of Nature's face. 
Thou lovest to sigh and murmur still. 

W. C. Bryant. 



A 



THE FOOLISH HAREBELL. 

HAREBELL hung its willful head : 

" I am so tired, so tired ! I wish I was 
dead." 



She hung her head in the mossy dell : 
If all were over, then all were well." 

The wind he heard, and was pitiful ; 
He waved her about to make her cool. 

Wind, you are rough," said the dainty bell; 
Leave me alone — I am not well." 

And the wind, at the voice of the drooping dame, 
Sank in his heart, and ceased for shame. 

I am hot, so hot !" she sighed and said ; 
I am withering up; I wish I was dead." 

Then the sun, he pitied her pitiful case. 
And drew a thick veil over his face. 

Cloud, go away, and don't be rude ; 
I am not — I don't see whv }'ou should." 
6 



The cloud withdrew, and the harebell cried, 
I am faint, so faint! and no water beside !" 

And the dew came down its million-fold path ; 
But she murmured, " I did not want a bath." 

A boy came by in the morning gray ; 

He plucked the harebell, and threw it away. 

The harebell shivered, and cried. '• Oh ! oh ! 
I am faint, so faint ! Come, dear wind, blow." 

The wind blew softly, and did not speak. 
She thanked him kindly, but grew more weak. 

Sun, dear sun, I am cold," she said. 

He rose ; but lower she drooped her head. 

O rain ! I am withering ; all the blue 
Is fading out of me; — come, please do." 

The rain came down as fast as it could, 
But for all its will it did her no good. 

She shuddered and shriveled, and moaning said ; 
Thank you all kindly;" and then she was dead. 

Let us hope, let us hope, when she comes next 

year. 
She'll be simple and sweet. But I fear, I fear. 

George Macdonald. 



w 



TO THE DAISY. 

ITH little here to do or see 
Of things that in the great world be. 
Sweet daisy ! oft I talk to thee. 
For thou art worthv. 
Thou unassuming commonplace 
Of nature, with that homely face. 
And yet with something of a grace 
Which love makes for thee ! 

I see thee glittering from afar, — 
And then thou art a pretty star, 
Not quite so fair as many are 

In heaven above thee ! 
Yet like a star, with glittering crest. 
Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest; — 
May peace come never to his nest 

Who shall reprove thee ! 

Sweet flower ! for by that name at last, 

When all my reveries are past, 

I call thee, and to that cleave fast. 

Sweet, silent creature ! 
That breath'st with me in sun and air. 
Do thou, as thou are wont, repair 
My heart with gladness, and a share 

Of thy meek nature. 

William Wordsworth, 



82 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 



TO THE 5KYLARK. 

ETHEREAL minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky ! 
Dost thou despise the earth where cares 
abound ? 
Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye 
Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground? 



'Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond, 

Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain ; 
Yet mightst thou seem, proud privilege ! to sing 
All independent of the leafy spring. 

Leave to the nightingale her shady wood ; 
A privacy of glorious light is thine. 




Thy nest, into which thou canst drop at will. 
Those quivering wings composed, that music 

still! 
To the last point of vision and beyond. 

Mount, daring warbler !— that love-prompted 
strain, 



Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood 

Of harmony, with instinct more divine; 
Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam — 
True to the kindred points of heaven and 
home ! 

William Wordsworth. 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 



8» 



THE PINE FOREST BY THE SEA. 




There lay the glade and the neighboring lawn, 
And through the dark green woods 

The white sun, twinkling like the dawn 
Out of a speckled cloud. 

Sweet views which in our world above 
Can never well be seen, 



ONE 

THE day was gray and dark and chill, 
Though May had come to meet us, 
So closely April lingered still. 
She had no heart to greet us ; 
When, with a swift and sudden flight, 

Wind-blown o'er hill and hollow, 
Two gray wings swept across my sight, 
And lo ! the first wild swallow. 

"Alas, fair bird ! the little breast 

That cuts the air so fleetly 
Should still have pressed its southern nest 

Till June was piping sweetly. 
In spite of cheery song and voice. 

Thou brave and blithe newcomer, 
I cannot in thy joy rejoice ; 

One swallow makes no summer." 



WE wandered to the pine forest 
That skirts the ocean's foam ; 
The lightest wind was in its nest. 
The tempest in its home. 
The whisp'ring waves were half asleep, 

The clouds were gone to play. 
And on the bosom of the deep 

The smile of heaven lay; 
It seemed as if the hour were one 

Sent from beyond the skies. 
Which scattered from above the sun 
A light of Paradise ! 

How calm it was ! the silence there 

By such a chain was bound. 
That even the busy woodpecker 

Made stiller by her sound 
The inviolable quietness ; 

The breath of peace we drew. 
With its soft motion made not less 

The calm that round us grew. 

We paused beside the pools that lie 

Under the forest bough ; 
Each seemed as 'twere a little sky 

Gulfed in a world below ; 
A firmament of purple light 

Which in the dark earth lay, 
More boundless than the depth of night, 

And purer than the day — 
In which the lovely forests grew. 

As in the upper air. 
More perfect both in shape and hue 

Than any spreading there. 

Were imaged by the water's love 

Of that fair forest green : 
And all was interfused beneath 

With an Elysian glow, 
An atmosphere without a breath, 
A softer day below. 

Percy B. Shelley. 
SWALLOW. 



Thus in my thought I fain would say : 

Meantime, on swift wing speeding. 
Its wild and winning roundelay 

The bird sang on unheeding : 
Of odorous fields and drowsy nooks. 

Of slow tides landward creeping, 
Of woodlands thrilled with jocund tunes, 

Of soft airs hushed and sleeping. 

He sang of waving forest heights 

With strong green boughs upspringing ; 
Of faint stars pale with drowsy lights. 

In dusky heavens swinging ; 
Of nests high hung in cottage eaves. 

Of yellow corn-fields growing. 
And through the long, slim, fluttering leaves. 

The sleepy winds a-1 lowing. 



84 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 



He sang until my soul took heed 

Of warm, soft-falling showers, 
Of dells high piled with tangled leaves, 

And gay with tangled flowers ; 

FIRST SIGHT OF THE VALLEY 

THE troops, refreshed by a night's rest, suc- 
ceeded, early on the following day, in gain- 
ing the crest of the sierra of Ahualco, 
which stretches like a curtain between the two 

great moun- 
tains on the 
north and 
south. Their 
progress w a s 
now compara- 




tively easy, and they marched forward with a 
buoyant step as they felt they were treading the 
soil of Montezuma. 

They had not advanced far, when, turning an 
angle of the sierra, they suddenly came on a view 
which more than compensated the toils of the pre- 
ceding day. _ It was that of the Valley of Mexico, 
which, with its picturesque assemblage of water, 
woodland, and cultivated plains, its shining cities 
and shadowy hills, was spread out like some gay 



Of life, and love, and hope's bright crew; 

This brave and blithe new comer — 
And so, and so, at last I knew 

One swallow made the summer. 

M. E. Blaine. 

OF MEXICO BY THE SPANIARDS. 

and gorgeous panorama before them. Stretching 
far away at their feet were seen noble forests of 
oak, sycamore, and cedar, and beyond, yellow fields 
of maize and the towering maguey, intermingled 
with orchards and blooming gardens ; for flowers, 
in such demand for their religious festivals, were 
even more abundant in this populous valley than 
in other parts of Anahuac. In the centre of the 
great basin were beheld the lakes, occupying then 
a much larger portion of its surface than at present; 
their borders thickly studded with towns and ham- 
lets, and, in the midst — like some Indian empress 
with her coronal of pearls — the fair city of Me.xico, 
with her white towers and pyramidal temple, re- 
posing, as it were, on the bosom of the waters — 
the far-famed "Venice of the Aztecs." 

High over all rose the royal hill of Chapultepec, 
the residence of the 
Mexican m o n a r c h s , 
crowned with the same 
grove of gigantic cyp- 
resses, which at this day 
fling their broad shad- 
ows over the land. In 
the distance beyond the 
blue waters of the lake, 
and nearly screened by 
intervening foliage, was 
seen a shining speck, the 
rival capital of Tezcuco, 
and, still further on, the 
dark belt of porphyry, 
girdling the valley 
around like a rich set- 
ting which nature had 
devised for the fairest of 
her jewels. 

Such was the beauti- 
ful vision which broke 
on the eyes of the con- 
querors. And even now, 
when so sad a change has 
"'" come over the scene; 

when the stately forests have been laid low, and the 
soil, unsheltered from the fierce radiance of a tropical 
sun, is in many places abandoned to sterility ; when 
the waters have retired, leaving a broad and ghastly 
margin white with the incrustation of salts, while 
the cities and hamlets on their borders have mould- 
ered into ruins ; — even now that desolation broods 
over the landscape, so indestructible are the lines 
of beauty which nature has traced on its features, 
that no traveler, however cold, can gaze on them 




In maiden meditation, fancy free. 

SHAKESPEARE. 




With thee conversing I forget all time, 

All seasons and their change — all please alike. 

MILTON. • 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 



85 



with any other emotions than those of astonish- 
ment and rapture. 

What, then, must have been the emotions of 
the Spaniards, when, after working their toilsome 
way into the upper air, the cloudy tabernacle 
parted before their eyes, and they beheld these fair 



scenes in all their pristine magnificence and beauty! 
It was like the spectacle which greeted the eyes of 
Moses from the summit of Pisgah, and, in the 
warm glow of their feelings, they cried out, " It is 
the promised land." 

W. H. Prescott. 



o 



THE FLOWER. 



NCE in a golden hour 
I cast to earth a seed. 
Up there came a flower, 
The people said, a weed. 



Sowed it far and wide 

By every town and tower. 

Till all the people cried, 
"Splendid is the flower." 




-\W\' 






To and fro they went 

Through my garden-bower, 
And muttering discontent 

Cursed me and my flower. 

Then it grew so tall 

It wore a crown of light, 
But thieves from o'er the wall 

Stole the seed by night ; 



Read my little fable : 

He that runs may read, 
Most can raise the flowers now, 

For all have got the seed. 

And some are pretty enough, 
And some are poor indeed ; 

And now again the people 
Call it but a weed. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



s 



NEW ENGLAND IN WINTER. 



HUT in from all tlie world without 
We sat the clean-winged hearth about 
Content to let the north-wind roar 
In baffled rage at pane and door, 
While the red logs before us beat 
The frost-line back with tropic heat; 
And ever, when a louder blast 
Shook beam and rafter as it passed, 
The merrier up its roaring draught 
The great throat of the chimney laughed. 



T 



TO THE FRINGED 

HOU blossom, bright with autumn dew, 
And colored with the heaven's own blue, 
That openest when the quiet light 
Succeeds the keen and frosty night ; 



Thou comest not when violets lean 

O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, 



The house-dog on his paws outspread 
Laid to the fire his drowsy head, 
The cat's dark silhouette on the wall 
A couchant tiger's seemed to fall ; 
And, for the winter fireside meet, 
Between the andirons' straddling feet. 
The mug of cider simmered slow, 
The apples sputtered in a row. 
And, close at hand, the basket stood 
With nuts from brown October's wood. 
J. G. Whittiee. 
GENTIAN. 

Or columbines, in purple dressed, 

Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. 

Thou waitest late, and com'st alone. 
When woods are bare and birds are flown. 
And frosts and shortening days portend 
The aged year is near his end. 



86 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 



Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye 
Look through its fringes to the sky, 
Blue — blue — as if that sky let fall 
A flower from its cerulean wall. 



I would that thus, when I shall see 
The hour of death draw near to me, 
Hope, blossoming within my heart. 
May look to heaven as I depart. 

W. C. Bryant. 




s 



THE THRUSH. 

ONGSTER of the russet coat, 
Full and liquid is thy note; 
Plain thy dress, but great thy skill, 
Captivating at thy will. 



Small musician of the field, 
Near my bower thy tribute yield, 



Little servant of the ear. 
Ply thy task, and never fear. 

I will learn from thee to praise 
God, the author of my days . 
I will learn from thee to sinj:, 
Christ, my Saviour and my King; 
Learn to labor with my voice, 
Make the sinking heart rejoice. 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 



87 




PRINQ. 



THE bud is in the bough and the leaf is in 
the bud, 
And earth's beginning now in her veins to 
feel the blood, 
Which, warmed by summer's sun in the alembic 

of the vine, 
From her founts will overrun in a ruddy gush of 
wine. 

How awful is the thought of the wonders under- 
ground. 
Of the mystic changes wrought in the silent, dark 

])rofound ; 
How each thing upward tends by necessity decreed, 
And the world's support depends on the shooting 

of a seed ! 
The summer's in her ark, and this sunny-pinioned 

day 
Is commissioned to remark whether winter holds 

her sway ; 
Go back, thou dove of peace, with myrtle on thy 

wing, 
Say that floods and tempests cease and the world 

is ripe for spring. 

Thou hast fanned the sleeping earth till her dreams 
are all of flowers, 

And the waters look in mirth for their overhang- 
ing bowers ; 



The forest seems to listen for the rustle of its leaves, 
And the very skies to glisten in the hope of sum- 
mer eves. 

The cattle lift their voices from the valleys and the 

hills, 
And the feathered race rejoices with a gush of 

tuneful bills ; 
And if this cloudless arch fills the poet's song with 

glee, 
O thou sunny first of March ! be it dedicate to 

thee. 

Horace Smith. 



1'^\ 



THE COMET. 

WAS a beautiful night on a beautiful deep, 
And the man at the helm had fiillen 

asleep, 

And the watch on the deck, with his head 
on his breast. 
Was beginning to dream that another's is pressed, 
When the look-out aloft cried, '-A sail! ho, a 

sail!" 
"A sail! ho, a sail!" "Where away?" " North- 

nn'th west !" 
"Make her out?" "No, your honor!" The 

din drowns the rest. 
There indeed is the stranger, the first in these 

seas. 
Yet she drives boldly on in the teeth of the 

breeze, 
Now her bows to the breakers she readily turns ; 
Ah, how brightly the light of her binnacle burns 1 
Not a signal for Saturn this rover has given. 
No salute from our Venus, the flag-star of Heaven, 
Not a rag or a ribbon adorning her spars, 
She has saucily sailed by the red planet Mars ; 
She has doubled triumphant the Cape of the 

Sun, 
And the sentinel stars without firing a gun ! 
Now a flag at the fore and mizzen unfurled. 

She is bearing quite gallantly down on the 

world ! 
" Helm-a-port !" "Show a light !" " She will 

run us aground !" 
"Fireagun!" " Bring her to !" "Sail ahoy!" 

" Whither bound ?" 
"Avast! there, ye lubbers! Leave the rudder 

alone ;" 
'Tis a craft in commission — the Admiral's own; 
And she sails with sealed orders, unopened as 

yet. 
Though her anchor she weighed before Lucifer 

set! 
Ah ! she sails by a chart no draughtsman can 

make. 
Where each cloud that can trail, and each wave 

that can break ; 
Where each planet is cruising, each star is at 

rest. 



88 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 



With its anchor let go in the blue of the blest ; 
Where the sparkling flotilla, the Asteroids, lie, 
Where the craft of red morning is flung on the 

si^y; . . . , 

Where the breath of the sparrow ]S staining the 

air — 
On the chart that she bears you will find them all 

there ! 
Let her pass on in peace to the port whence she 

came. 
With her trackings of fire and her streamers of 

flame ! 

Benjamin F. Taylor. 



FLOWERS. 

HOW the universal heart of man blesses flowers! 
They are wreathed round the cradle, the 
marriage-altar, and the tomb. The Per- 
sian in the far East delights in their perfume, and 
writes his love in nosegays ; while the Lidian child 
of the far West clasps his hands with glee as he 
gathers the abundant blossoms — the illuminated 
scripture of the prairies. The Cupid of the an- 
cient Hindoos tipped his arrows with flowers, and 
orange buds are the bridal crown with us, a nation 
of yesterday. Flowers garlanded the Grecian 




LAKE MAHOPAC. 

LAKE of the soft and sunny hills, 
What loveliness is thine ! 
Around thy fair, romantic shore 
What countless beauties shine ! 
Shrined in their deep and hollow urn, 

Thy silver waters lie — 
A mirror set in waving gems 
Of many a regal dye. 

Oh, pleasant to the heart it is 

In those fair isles to stray. 
Or fancy's idle visions weave 

Through all the golden day, 
Where dark old trees, around whose stems 

Caressing woodbines cling, 
O'er mossy, flower-enamelled banks 

Their trembling shadows fling. 

Caroline M. Sawyer. 



altar, and they hang in votive wreaths before the 
Christian shrine. 

All these are appropriate uses. Flowers should 
deck the brow of the youthful bride, for they are 
in themselves a lovely type of marriage. They 
should twine round the tomb, for their perpetually 
renewed beauty is a symbol of the resurrection. 
They should festoon the altar, for their fragrance 
and their beauty ascend in perpetual worship be- 
fore the Most High. Lydia M. Child. 

THE BUGLE. 

THE splendor falls on castle walls 
And snowy summits old in story : 
The long light shakes across the lakes, 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 



m 



O hark ! O hear \ how thin and clear, 
And thinner, clearer, farther going ! 
O sweet and far, from cliff and scar, 
The horns of Elfiand faintly blowing ! 
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying ; 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 



O love, they die in yon rich sky. 

They faint on hill or field or river ; 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul. 
And grow forever and forever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying, 

Alfred Tennyson. 




R 



OSES, roses, red and white. 

They are sweet and fresh and bright ; 

Buy them for thy love's delight ! 
In a garden old they grew. 
Old with flowers ever new — 
Buy them for thy loved one true, 



Roses, red and white, to wear 

On her bosom, in her hair. 

Buy them for thy lady fair : 

Like a token from above, 

Thy heart faithful they will prove — 

Buy them for thy lady love. 

William Cowan. 



THE NIGHTINGALE. 



HARK ! the nightingale begins his song, 
"Most musical, most melancholy " bird ! 
A melancholy bird ! O idle thought ! 
In nature there is nothing melancholy. 
But some night-wandering man, whose heart was 

pierced 
With the remembrance of a grievous wrong. 



Or slow distemper, or neglected love 
(x\nd so, poor wretch ! filled all things with him- 
self. 
And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale 
Of his own sorrows), he, and such as he. 
First named these notes a melancholy strain. 

S. T. Coleridge. 



THE NORTH STAR. 



ON thy unaltering blaze 
i'he half-wrecked mariner, his compass 
lost. 
Fixes his steady gaze. 
And steers, undoubting, to the friendly coast ; 
And they who stray in perilous wastes, by night. 
Are glad when thou dost shine to guide their foot- 
steps right. 



And, therefore, bards of old. 
Sages, and hermits of the solemn wood. 

Did in thy beams behold 
A beauteous type of that unchanging good. 
That bright eternal beacon, by whose ray 
The voyager of time should shape his heedful 
way. 

W. C. Bryant. 



eo 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 




lARVEST 



SWEET, sweet, sweet, 
Is the wind's song. 
Astir in the rippled wheat 
All day long, 
^t hath the brook's wild gayety, 
The sorrowful cry of the sea. 
Oh, hush and hear ! 
Sweet, sweet and clear, 
Above the locust's whirr 
And hum of bee 
Rises that soft, pathetic harmony. 

In the meadow-grass 

The innocent white daisies blow, 
Tlie dandelion plume doth pass 

Vaguely to and fro — 

The unquiet spirit of a flower, 
That hath too brief an hour. 
Now doth a little cloud all white, 

Or golden bright, 
Drift down the warm blue sky; 

And now on the horizon line 
Where dusky woodlands lie, 

A sunny mist doth shine, 

Like to a veil before a holy shrine, 

Concealing, half-revealing, things divine. 

Sweet, sweet, sweet. 

Is the wind's song, 
Astir in the rippled wheat 

All day long. 
That exquisite music calls 

The reaper everywhere — 
Life and death must share. 

The golden harvest falls. 

So doth all end — 
Honored philosophy. 



Science and art. 
The bloom of the heart ; 
Master, Consoler, Friend, 

Make Thou the harvest of our day.'' 
To fall within thy ways. 

Ellen M. Hutchinson. 

SONQ OF THE BROOK. 

I COME from haunts of coot and hern : 
I make a sudden sally 
And sparkle out among the fern, 
To bicker down a valley. 

By thirty hills I hurry down, 

Or slip between the ridges, 
By twenty thorps, a little town. 

And half a hundred bridges. 

Till last by Philip's farm I flow 

To join the brimming river, 
For men may come and men may go. 

But I go on forever. 

I chatter over stony ways, 

In little sharps and trebles, 
I bubble into eddying bays, 

I babble on the pebbles. 

With many a curve ray banks I fret 

By many a field and fallow, 
And many a fairy foreland set 

With willow-weed and mallow. 

I chatter, chatter, as I flow 
To join the brimming river; 

For men may come and men may go. 
But I go on forever. 

I wind about, and in and out. 
With here a blossom sailing, 

And here and there a lusty trout, 
.\nd here and there a grayling, 

And here and there a foamy flake 

Upon me, as I travel 
With many a silvery waterbreak 

Above the golden gravel. 

And draw them all along, and flow. 

To join the brimming river. 
For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on forever. 

I steal by lawns and grassy plots : 

I slide by hazel covers ; 
I move the sweet forget-me-nots 

That grow for happy lovers. 

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, 
Among my skimming swallows; 

I make the netted sunbeam dance 
.Against my sandy shallows. 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 



91 



I murmur under moon and stars 

In brambly wildernesses ; 
I linger by my shingly bars ; 

1 loiter round ray cresses ; 

And out again I curve and flow 

To join the brimming river, 
For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on forever. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



A 



MIDSUMMER. 

ROUND this lovely valley rise 
The purple hills of Paradise. 



O, softly on yon banks of haze 
Her rosy face the summer lays ! 

Becalmed along the azure sky 
The argosies of cloudland lie, 



The butterfly and humble-bee 

Come to the pleasant woods with me; 

Quickly before me runs the quail, 
The chickens skulk behind the rail ; 

High up the lone wood-pigeon sits, 
And the woodpecker pecks and flits. 

Sweet woodland music sinks and swells, 
The brooklet rings its tinkling bells, 

The swarming insects drone and hum, 
The partridge beats his throbbing drum, 

The squirrel lea])S among the boughs 
And chatters in his leafy house. 

The oriole flashes by; and, look ! 
Into the mirror of the brook, 




Whose shores, with many a shining rift. 
Far off their pearl-white peaks uplift. 

Through all the long midsummer day 
The meadow sides are sweet with hay. 

I seek the coolest sheltered seat. 

Just where the field and forest meet — 

Where grow the pine trees tall and bland, 
The ancient oaks austere and grand, 

And fringy roots and pebbles fret 
The ripples of the rivulet. 

I watch the mowers as they go 

Through the tall grass, a white-sleeved row. 

With even stroke their scythes they swing. 
In tune their merry whetstones ring. 

Behind, the nimble youngsters run 
And toss the thick swaths in the sun. 

The cattle graze ; while warm and still 
Slopes the broad pasture, basks the hill, 

And bright, where summer breezes break. 
The green wheat crinkles like a lake. 



Where the vain bluebird trims his coat. 
Two tiny feathers fall and float. 

As silently, as tenderly. 

The down of peace descends on me. 

O, this is peace ! I have no need 
Of friend to talk, of book to read ; 

A dear Companion here abides; 
Close to my thrilling heart He hides ; 

The holy silence is His voice: 
I lie and listen, and rejoice. 

J. T. Trowbridge. 

SUMMER-TIME. 

THEY were right — those old German minne- 
singers — to sing the pleasant summer-time ! 
What a time it is ! How June stands illum- 
inated in the calendar ! The windows are all wide 
open ; only the Venetian blinds closed. Here and 
there a long streak of sunshine streams in through 
a crevice. We hear the low sotmd of the wind 
among the trees ; and, as it swells and freshens, 
the distant doors clap to, with a sudden sound. 



92 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 



The trees are heavy with leaves ; and the gardens 
full of blossoms, red and white. 'I he whole atmos- 
phere is laden with perfume and sunshine. The 
birds sing. Tlie cock struts about, and crows loft- 
ily. Inse°cts chirp in the grass. Yellow butter-cups 
stud the green carpet like golden buttons, and the 
red blossoms of the clover like rubies. The elm- 
trees reach their long, pendulous branches almost 
to the ground. White clouds sail aloft, and vapors 
fret the blue sky with silver threads. The white 
village gleams afar against the dark hills. Through 
the meadow winds the river — careless, indolent. 
It seems to love the country, and is in no haste to 
reach the sea. The bee only is at work— the hot 
and angry bee. All things else are at play ! he 
never plays, and is ve.\ed that any one should. 

People drive out from town to breathe, and to 
be happy. Most of them have flowers in their 
hands ; bunches of apple-blossoms, and still oftener 
lilacs. Ye denizens of the crowded city, how 
pleasant to you is the change from the sultry streets 
to the open fields, fragrant with clover blossoms ! 
how pleasant the fresh, breezy, country air, dashed 
with brine from the meadows ! how pleasant, above 
all, the flowers, the manifold beautiful flowers ! 

H. W. Longfellow. 



D 



TRAILING ARBUTU5. 

ARLINGS of the forest ! 
Blossoming, alone. 
When earth's grief is sorest 
For her jewels gone — 
Ere the last snow-drift melts, your tender buds 
have blown. 

Tinged with color faintly, 

Like the morning sky, 
Or, more pale and saintly, 

Wrapped in leaves you lie — 
Even as children sleep in faith's simplicity. 

There the wild-wood robin, 

Hymns your solitude ; 
And the rain comes sobbing 
Through the budding wood, 
While the low south wind sighs, but dare not be 
more rude. 

Were your pure lips fashioned 

Out of air and dew, 
Starlight unimpassioned. 
Dawn's most tender hue, 
And scented by the woods that gathered sweets for 
you? 

Fairest and most lonely. 

From the world apart ; 
Made for beauty only, 

Veiled from nature's heart 
With such unconscious grace as makes the dream 
of Art ! 



Were not mortal sorrow 

An immortal shade, 
Then would I to-morrow 
Such a flower be made. 
And live in the dear woods where my lost child- 
hood played. Rose Terry Cooke. 

LITTLE STREAMS. 

LITTLE streams are light and shadow ; 
Flowing through the pasture meadow, 
Flowing by the green way-side. 
Through the forest dim and wide, 
Through the hamlet still and small — 
By the cottage, by the hall, 
By the ruined abbey still ; 
Turning here and there a mill, 
Bearing tribute to the river — 
Little streams, I love you ever. 

Summer music is there flowing, 
Flowering plants in them are growing ; 
Happy life is in them all. 
Creatures innocent and small ; 
Little birds come down to drink 
Fearless of their leafy brink ; 
Noble trees beside them grow. 
Glooming them with branches low ; 
And between, the sunshine, glancing 
In their little wave-, is dancing. 

Little streams have flowers a many. 
Beautiful and fair as any; 
Typha strong, and green bur-reed ; 
Willow-herb, with cotton seed ; 
Arrow-head, with eye of jet ; 
And the water-violet. 
There the flowering-rush you meet, 
.\nd the plumy meadowsweet ; 
And, in places deep and stilly. 
Marble-like, the water-lily. 

Little streams, their voices cheery, 

Sound forth welcomes to the weary, 

Flowing on from day to day. 

Without stint and without stay ; 

Here, upon their flowery bank. 

In the old time pilgrims drank. 

Here have seen, as now, pass by, 

King-fisher, and dragon-fly; 

Those bright things that have their dwelin.j 

Where the little streams are welling. 

Down in valleys green and lowly. 
Murmuring not and gliding slowly; , 

Up in mountain-hollows wild. 
Fretting like a peevish child ; 
Through the hamlet, where all day 
In their waves the children play ; 
Running west, or running east. 
Doing good to man and beast — 
Always giving, weary never, 
Little streams, I love you ever. 

Mary Howitt, 




'GATHERING FLOWERS, HERSELF A FAIRER FLOWER" 




AN OCEAN VOYAGE 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 



93 




1 



THE BURIED FLOWER. 



N the silence of my chamber, 

When the night is still and deep, 
And the drowsy heave of ocean 
Mutters in its charmed sleep : 

Oft I hear the angel voices 

That have thrilled me long ago — 



Voices of my lost companions, 
Lying deep beneath the snow. 

Where are now the flowers we tended ? 

Withered, broken, branch and stem; 
AVhere are now the hopes we cherished ? 

Scattered to the winds with them. 



94 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 



For ye, too, were flowers, ye dear ones ! 

Nursed in hope and reared in love, 
Looking fondly ever upward 

To the clear blue heaven above : 

Smiling on the sun that cheered us, 
Rising lightly from the rain, 

Never folding up your freshness 
Save to give it forth again : 

Never shaken, save by accents 
From a tongue that was not free. 

As the modest blossom trembles 
At the wooing of the bee. 

O ! 'tis sad to lie and reckon 
All the days of faded youth, 

All the vows that we believed in. 
All the words we spoke in truth. 

Severed — were it severed only 
By an idle thought of strife. 

Such as time may knit together; 
Not the broken chord of life ! 

O my heart ! that once so truly 
Kept another's time and tune, — 

Heart, that kindled in the morning, 
Look around thee in the noon ! 

Where are they who gave the impulse 
To thy earliest thought and flow? 

Look across the ruined garden — 
All are withered, dropped, or low ! 

O ! I fling my spirit backward, 
And I pass o'er years of pain ; 

All I loved is rising round me, 
All the lost returns again. 

Brighter, fairer far than living, 
With no trace of woe or pain, 

Robed in everlasting beauty. 
Shall I see thee once again. 

By the light that never fadeth, 

Underneath eternal skies. 
When the dawn of resurrection 

Breaks o'er deathless Paradise. 

William E. Aytoun. 

THE SAND-PIPER. 

ACROSS the narrow beach we flit, 
One little sand-piper and I ; 
And fast I gather, bit by bit. 

The scattered drift-wood, bleached and 
dry. 
The wild waves reach their hands for it, 

The wild wind raves, the tide runs high. 
As up and down the beach we flit — 
One little sandpiper and L 



Above our heads the sullen clouds 

Scud black and swift across the sky ; 
Like silent ghosts, in misty shrouds 

Stand out the white light-houses nigh. 
Almost as far as eye can reach, 

I see the close-reefed vessels fly, 
As fast we flit along the beach — 

One little sand-piper and L 

I watch him as he skims along, 

Uttering his sweet and mournful cry ; 
He starts not at my fitful song, 

Or flash of fluttering drapery : 
He has no thought of any wrong. 

He scans me with a fearless eye ; 
Staunch friends are we, well-tried and strong, 

This little sand-piper and I. 

Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night. 

When the loosed storm breaks furiously ? 
My drift-wood fire will burn so bright ! 

To what warm shelter canst thou fly ? 
I do not fear for thee, though wroth 

The tempest rushes through the sky ; 
For are we not God's children both. 

Thou little sand-piper and I ? 

Celia Thaxter. 

ELEGY— WRITTEN IN SPRING. 

1^^ IS past : the iron north has 
spent his rage ; 
Stern winter now resigns 
the lengthening day, 
The stormy howlings of the 
winds assuage, 
And warm o'er ether west- 
ern breezes play. 

Of genial heat and cheerful 
light the source. 
From southern climes, beneath another sky. 
The sun, returning, wheels his golden course : 
Before his beams all noxious vapors fly. 

Far to the north grim winter draws his train, 
To his own clime, to Zembla's frozen shore ; 

Where, throned on ice, he holds eternal reign ; 
Where whirlwinds madden, and where tempests 
roar. 

Loosed from the bands of frost, the verdant 
ground 

Again jnits on her robe of cheerful green. 
Again puts forth her flowers ; and all around 

Smiling, the cheerful face of spring is seen. 

Behold ! the trees new deck their withered boughs; 

Their ample leaves the hospitable plane. 
The taper elm, and lofty ash disclose ; 

The bloomiRg hawthorn variegates the scene. 




THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 



95 



The lily of the vale, of flowers the queen, 

Puts on the robe she neither sewed nor spun ; 

The birds on ground, or on the branches green, 
Hop to and fro, and glitter in the sun. 

Soon as o'er eastern hills the morning peers, 
From her low nest the tufted lark upsprings ; 

And, cheerful singing, up the air she steers; 
Still high she mounts, still loud and sweet she 
sings. 




Now is the time for those who wisdom love. 
Who love to walk in virtue's flowery road, 

Along the lovely paths of spring to rove. 
And follow nature up to nature's God. 

Michael Bruce. 

AMERICAN SKIES. 

THE sunny Italy may boast 
The beauteous tints that flush her skies, 
And lovely, round the Grecian coast. 
May thy blue pillars rise. 
I only know how fair they stand 
Around my own beloved land. 

And they are fair — a charm is theirs. 

That earth, the proud green earth, has not — 

With all the forms, and hues, and airs, 
That haunt her sweetest spot. 

We gaze upon thy calm pure sphere, 

And read of Heaven's eternal year. 

Oh, when, amid the throng of men, 
The heart grows sick of hollow mirth, 

How willingly we turn us then 
Away from this cold earth. 

And look into thy azure breast, 

For seats of innocence and rest ! 

W. C. Bryant. 



SCENERY OF LAKE SUPERIOR. 

FEW portions of America can vie in scenic 
attractions with this interior sea. Its size 
alone gives it all the elements of grandeur, 
but these have been heightened by the mountain 
masses which nature has piled along its shores. 
In some places these masses consist of vast walls 
of coarse gray or drab sandstone, placed horizon- 
tally until they have attained many hundred feet 
in height above the water. The 
action of such an immense liquid 
^"^'^ ysi. area, forced against these crum- 

^^^fe bling walls by tempests, has caused 

wide and deep arches to be worn 
into the solid structure at their 
base, into which the billows rush 
with a noise resembling low pealing 
thunder. By this means, large areas 
of the impending mass are at length 
undermined and precipitated into 
the lake, leaving the split and rent 
parts from which they have sepa- 
rated standing like huge misshapen 
turrets and battlements. Such is 
the varied coast called the Pictured 
Rocks. 

At other points of the coast vol- 
canic forces have operated, lifting 
up these level strata into positions 
nearly vertical, and leaving them to 
stand like the leaves of an open book. At the 
same time, the volcanic rocks sent up from below 
have risen in high mountain piles. Such is the 
condition of things at the Porcupine Mountains. 

There are yet other theatres of action for this 
sublime mass of inland waters, where it has mani- 
fested perhaps still more strongly, if not so strik- 
ingly, its abrasive powers. The whole force of 
the lake, under the impulse of a north-west tem- 
pest, is directed against prominent portions of the 
shore, which consist of the black and hard volcanic 
rocks. Solid as these are, the waves have found 
an entrance in veins of spar or minerals of softer 
structure, and have thus been led inland, and torn 
up large fields of amygdaloid and other rock, or 
left portions of them standing in rugged knobs or 
promontories. Such are the east and west coasts 
of the great peninsuia of Keweena, which has 
recently become the theatre of mining operations. 
When the visitor to these remote and boundless 
waters comes to see this wide and varied scene of 
complicated attractions, he is absorbed in wonder 
and astonishment. The eye, once introduced to 
this panorama of waters, is never done looking 
and admiring. Scene after scene, cliff after chff, 
island after island, and vista after vista are pre- 
sented. One day's scenes are but the prelude to 
another, and when weeks and months have been 
spent in picturesque rambles along its shores, the 



•96 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 



traveler has only to ascend some of its streams and 
go inland to find falls and cascades, and cataracts 
of the most beautiful or magnificent character. Go 
where he will, there is something to attract him. 
Beneath his feet the pebbles are agates. The water 
is of the most crystalline purity. The sky is filled 
at sunset with the most gorgeous piles of clouds. 
The air itself is of the purest and most inspiriting 
kind. To visit such a scene is to draw health 
from its purest fountains, and to revel in intel- 
lectual delights. 

Henry R. Schoolcraft. 

HAMPTON BEACH. 

THE sunlight glitters keen and bright, 
Where, miles away. 
Lies stretching to my dazzled sight 
A luminous belt, a misty light, 
Beyond the dark pine bluffs and wastes of sandy 
gray. 

The tremulous shadow of the sea ! 

Against its ground 
Of silvery light, rock, hill, and tree, 
Still as a picture, clear and free. 
With varying outline mark the coast for miles 
around. 

On — on — we tread with loose-flung rein 

Our seaward way, 
Through dark-green fields and blossoming grain, 
Where the wild brier-rose skirts the lane. 
And bends above our heads the flowering locust 
spray. 

Ha ! like a kind hand on my brow 

Comes this fresh breeze, 
Cooling its dull and feverish glow, 
While through my being seems to flow 
The breath of a new life — the healing of the seas! 

Now rest we, where this grassy mound 

His feet hath set 
In the great waters, which have bound 
His granite ancles greenly round 
"With long and tangled moss, and weeds with cool 
spray wet. 

Good-bye to pain and care ! I take 

Mine ease to-day ; 
Here where these sunny waters break. 
And ripples this keen breeze, I shake 
All burdens from the heart, all weary thoughts 
away. 

I draw a freer breath — I seem 

Like all I see — 
Waves in the sun — the white-winged gleam 
Of sea-birds in the slanting beam — 
And far-off sails which flit before the south wind 
free. 



So when time's veil shall fall asunder, 

The soul may know 
No fearful change, nor sudden wonder, 
Nor sink the weight of mystery under, 
But with the upward rise, and with the vastness 
grow. 

And all we shrink from now may seem 

No new revealing ; 
Familiar as our childhood's stream. 
Or pleasant memory of a dream 
The loved and cherished past upon the new life 
stealing. 

Serene and mild the untried light 

May have its dawning ; 
And, as in summer's northern night 
The evening and the dawn unite. 
The sunset hues of time blend with the soul's new 
morning. 

I sit alone : in foam and spray 

Wave after wave 
Breaks on the rocks which, stern and gray, 
Shoulder the broken tide away. 
Or murmurs hoarse and strong through mossy cleft 
and cave. 

What heed I of the dusty land 

And noisy town ? 
I see the mighty deep expand 
From its white line of glimmering sand 
To where the blue of heaven on bluer waves shuts 
down ! 

In listless quietude of mind, 

I yield to all 
The change of cloud and wave and wind, 
And passive on the flood reclined, 
I wander with the waves, and with them rise and 
fall. 

But look, thou dreamer ! — wave and shore 

In shadow lie ; 
The night-wind warns me back once more 
To where my native hill-tops o'er 
Bends like an arch of fire the glowing sunset sky! 

So then, beach, bluff, and wave, farewell ! 

I bear witli me 
No token stone nor glittering shell. 
But long and oft shall Memory tell 
Of this brief thoughtful hour of musing by the Sea. 

J. G. Whittier. 

THE CHANGED SONG. 

I THOUGHT the sparrows note from heaven, 
Singing at dawn from the alder bough ; 
I brought him home, in his nest, at even ; 
He sings the song, but it pleases not now. 
For I did not bring home the river and sky; — 
He sang to my ear, — they sang to my eye. 

R. W. Emerson. 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 



97 




THE GARDEN. 

OVV vainly men themselves amaze, 
To win the palm, the oak, or bays; 
And their incessant labors see 
Crowned from some single herb, or tree. 
Whose short and narrow-verged shade 
Does prudently their toils upbraid ; 
While all the flowers and trees do close, 
'I'o weave the garland of repose. 

No white nor red was ever seen 

So amorous as this lovely green. 

Fond lovers, cruel as their flame. 

Cut in these trees their mistress' name. 

Little, alas ! they know or heed. 

How far these beauties her exceed ! 

Fair trees! where'er your barks I wound. 

No name shall but your own be found. 

When we have run our passion's heat. 
Love hither makes his best retreat. 
The gods who mortal beauty chase. 
Still in a tree did end their race. 
Apollo hunted Daphne so, 
Only that she might laurel grow : 
And Pan did after Syrinx speed, 
Not as a nymph, but for a reed. 



What wondrous life in this I lead ! 
Ripe apples drop about my head ; 
The luscious clusters of the vine 
Upon my mouth do crush their wine ; 
The nectarine, and curious peach. 
Into my hands themselves do reach ; 
Stumbling on melons, as I pass, 
Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass. 

Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less 

Withdraws into its happiness. 

The mind, that ocean where each kind 

Does straight its own resemblance find ; 

Yet it creates, transcending these. 

Far other worlds and other seas ; 

Annihilating all that's made 

To a green thouglit in a green shade. 

Here at the fountain's sliding foot. 
Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, 
Casting the body's vest aside, 
My soul into the boughs does glide ; 
There, like a bird, it sits and sings, 
Then whets and claps its silver wings, 
And, till prepared for longer flight, 
Waves in its plumes the various light. 

Such was the happy garden state, 
While man there walked without a mate ; 
After a place so pure and sweet, 
What other help could yet be meet ? 
But 'twas beyond a mortal's share 
To wander solitary there: 
7 



Two jjaradises are in one, 
To live in paradise alone. 

How well the skillful gardener drew 
Of flowers, and herbs, this dial nesv ! 
Where, from above, the milder sun 
Does through a fragrant zodiac run ; 
And, as it works, th' industrious bee 
Computes its time as well as we. 
How could such sweet and wholesome hours 
Be reckoned, but with herbs and flowers ? 

Andrew Marvell. 
TO THE RIVER ARVE. 

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN AT A HAMLET NEAR THE FOOT 
OF MONT BLANC. 

Tourists in Switzerland are in the habit of visiting the 
point where the River Arve unites with the River Rhone. 
The Arve flows from tlie glaciers of the Alps, and has a 
peculiarly muddy appearance. The waters of the Rhone are 
clear as crystal. When the two rivers unite there is a dis- 
tinct line of deniarkation between them for a considerable 
distance, but gradually their %vaters are mingled. 



N' 



' OT from the sands or cloven rocks. 
Thou rapid Arve ! thy waters flow ; 
Nor earth, within her bosom, locks 
Thy dark, unfathomed wells below. 
Thv springs are in the cloud, thy stream 

Begins to move and murmur first 
Where ice-peaks feel the noonday beam, 
Or rain-storms on the glacier burst. 



98 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 



Born where the thunder and the blast, 

And morning's earliest light are born. 
Thou rushest swol'n, and loud, and fast. 

By these low homes, as if in scorn ; 
Yet humbler springs yield purer waves ; 

And brighter, glassier streams than thine. 
Sent up from earth's unlighted caves, 

Witli heaven's own beam and image shine. 

Yet stay ; for here are flowers and trees ; 

Warm rays on cottage roofs are here, 
And laugh of girls, and hum of bees — 

Here linger till thy waves are clear. 
Thou heedest not — thou hastest on ; 

From steep to steep thy torrent falls, 
Till, mingling with the mighty Rhone, 

It rests beneath Geneva's walls. 

Rush on — but were there one with me 

That loved me, I would light my hearth 
Here, wherewith God's own majesty 

Are touched the features of the earth. 
By these old peaks, white, high, and vast, 

Still rising as the tempests beat. 
Here would I dwell, and sleep, at last, 

Among the blossoms at their feet. 

W. C. Brvant. 

VIEW ACROSS THE ROMAN CAMPAQNA. 

OVER the dumb campagna-sea, 
Out in the offing through mist and rain, 
St. Peter's Church heaves silently 
Like a mighty ship in pain, 
Facing the tempest with struggle and strain. 

Motionless waifs of ruined towers, 
Soundless breakers of desolate land ! 

The sullen surf of the mist devours 

That mountain-range upon either hand. 
Eaten away from its outline grand. 

And over the dumb campagna-sea 

Where (he ship of the Church heaves on to wreck. 

Alone and silent as God must be 

The Christ walks! — Ay, but Peter's neck 
Is stiff to turn on the foundering deck. 

Peter, Peter, if such be thy name, 

Now leave the ship for another to steer. 

And proving thy faith evermore the same 

Come forth, tread out through the dark and drear. 
Since He who walks on the sea is here ! 

Peter, Peter ! — he does not speak, — 

He is not as rash as in old Galilee. 
Safer a ship, though it toss and leak, 

Than a reeling foot on a rolling sea ! 

And he's got to be round in the girth, thinks he. 

Peter, Peter ! — he does not stir, — 

Kis nets are heavy with silver fish : 
He reckons his gains, and is keen to infer 



"The broil on the shore, if the Lord should 

wish, — 
But the sturgeon goes to the Caesar's dish." 

Peter, Peter, thou fisher of men, 

Fisher of fish wouldst thou live instead, — 

Haggling for pence with the other Ten, 
Cheating the market at so much a head, 
Griping the bag of the traitor dead ! 

At the triple crow of the Gallic cock 

Thou weep'st not, thou, though thine eyes be 
dazed : 
What bird comes ne.\t iij the tempest shock ? 
. . Vultures 1 See — as when Romulus gazed. 
To inaugurate Rome for a world amazed I 

Elizabeth B. Browning. 

THE BIRCH-TREE. 

RIPPLING through thy branches goes the sun- 
shine. 
Among thy leaves that palpitate for ever ; 
Ovid in thee a pining Nymph had prisoned. 
The soul once of some tremulous inland river, 
Quivering to tell her woe, but, ah! dumb, dumb 
for ever ! 

While all the forest, witched with slumberous moon- 
shine. 
Holds up its leaves in happy, happy silence, 
Waiting the dew, with breath and pulse suspended, — 
I hear afar thy whispering, gleaming islands, 
And track thee wakeful still amid the wide-hung 
silence. 

Upon the brink of some wood-nestled lakelet, 
Thy foliage, like the tresses, of a Dryad, 
Dripping about thy slim white stem, whose shadow 
Slopes quivering down the water's dusky quiet, 
Thou shrink'st as on her bath's edge would some 
startled Dryad. 

Thou art the go-between of rustic lovers ; 
Thy white bark has their secrets in its keeping ; 
Reuben writes here the happy name of Patience, 
And thy lithe boughs hang murmuring and weeping 
Above her, as she steals the mystery from thy 
keeping. 

Thou art to me like my beloved maiden, 

So frankly coy, so fiill of trembly confidences ; 

Thy shadow scarce seems shade ; thy pattering 

leaflets 
Sprinkle their gathered sunshine o'er my senses. 
And Nature gives me all her summer confidences. 

Whether my heart with hope or sorrow tremble. 
Thou sympathizest still ; wild and unquiet, 
I fling me down, thy ripple, like a river. 
Flows valleyward while calmness is, and by it 
My heart is floated down into the land of quiet. 
James Russell Lowell. 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 



99 



MOUNTAINS. 

MOUNTAINS! who was your builder? Who 
laid your awful foundations in the central 
fires, and piled your rocks and snow- 
capped summits among the clouds? Who placed 
you in the gardens of the world, like noble altars, 
on which to offer the sacrificial gifts of many 
nations? 

Who reared your rocky walls in the barren desert, 
like towering pyramids, like monumental mounds, 
like giants' graves, like dismantled piles of royal 
ruins, telling a mournful tale of glory, once bright, 
but now fled forever, as flee the dreams of a mid- 
summer's night ? Who gave you a home in the 
islands of the sea, — those emeralds that gleam 
among the waves, — those slars of ocean that mock 
the beauty of the stars of night? 

Mountains ! I know who built you. It was 
God ! His name is written on your foreheads. 
He laid your cornerstones on that glorious morn- 
ing when the orchestra of heaven sounded the 
anthem of creation. He clothed your high, im- 
perial forms in royal robes. 

He gave you a snowy garment, and wove for you 
a cloudy vail of crimson and gold. He crowned 
you with a diadem of icy jewels; pearls from the 
Arctic seas; gems from the frosty pole. Moun- 
tains ! ) e are glorious. Ye stretch your granite 
arms away toward the vales of the undiscovered : 
ye have a longing for immortality. 

But, Mountains! ye long in vain. I called you 
glorious, and truly ye are; but your glory is like 
that of the starrv heavens, — it shall pass away at 
the trumpet-blast of the angel of the Most High. 
.\nd yet ye are worthy of a high and eloquent 
eulogium. Ye were the lovers of the daughters of 
the gods ; ye are the lovers of the daughters of 
Liberty and Religion now ; and in your old and 
feeble age tlie children of the skies shall honor 
your bald heads. 

The clouds of heaven — those shadows of Olym- 
pian power, those spectral phantoms of dead Titans 
— kiss your summits, as guardian angels kiss the 
brow of infant nobleness. On your sacred rocks 
I see the footprints of the Creator ; I see the 
blazing fires of Sinai, and hear its awful voice; I 
see the tears of Calvary, ard listen to its mighty 
groans. 

Mountains ! ye are proud and haughty things. 
Ye hurl defiance at the storm, the lightning, and 
the wind ; ye look down with deeji disdain upon 
the thunder-cloud ; ye scorn the devastating tem- 
pest ; ye despise the works of puny man ; ye s'-ake 
your rock-rilibed sides with giant laughter, when 
the great earthquake passes by. Ye stand as giant 
sentinels, and seem to say to the boisterous bil- 
lows, — "Thus far shah thou come, and here shall 
thy proud waves be stayed !" 

Mountains! ye are growing old. Your ribs of 



granite are getting weak and rotten ; your muscles 
are losing their fatness; your hoarse voices are 
heard only at distant intervals; your volcanic heart 
throbs feebly and your lava-blood is thickening, as 
the winters of many ages gather their chilling 
snows around your venerable forms. 

The brazen sunlight laughs in your old and 
wrinkled faces; the pitying moonlight nestles in 
your hoary locks ; and the silvery starlight rests 




upon you like the halo of inspiration that crowned 
the heads of dying patriarchs and prophets. 
Mountains ! ye must die. Old Father Time, that 
sexton of earth, has dug you a deep, dark tomb ; 
and in silence ye shall sleep after sea and shore 
shall have been pressed by the feet of the apoca- 
lyptic angel, through the long watches of an 
eternal night. 

E. M. Morse. 

THE GLORY OF MOTION. 

THRP^E twangs of the horn, and they're all 
out of cover ! 
Must brave you, old bull-finch, that's right 
in the way ! 
A rush, and a bound, and a crash, and I'm over ! 
They're silent and racing and for'ard away; 



100 



THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 



Fly, Charley, my darling ! Away and we follow ; 

There's no earth or cover for mile upon mile ; 
We're winged with the flight of the stork and the 
swallow ; 

The heart of the eagle is ours for a while. 

The pasture land knows not of rough plough or 
harrow ! 

The hoofs echo hollow and soft on the sward ; 
The soul of the horses goes into our marrow ; 

My saddle's a kingdom, and I am its lord : 
And rolling and flowing beneath us like ocean, 

Gray waves of the high ridge and furrow glide on. 
And small flying fences in musical motion, 

Before us, beneath us, behind us, are gone. 

O puissant of bone and of sinew availing. 

On thee how I've longed for the brooks and the 
showers ! 
O white-breasted camel, the meek and unfailing, 
I To speed through the glare of the long desert 

hours ! 
And, bright little barbs, ye make worthy pretences 

To go with the going of Solomon's sires ; 
But you stride not the stride, and you fly not the 
fences ! 
And all the wide Hejaz is naught to the shires. 

O gay gondolier ! from thy night-flitting shallop 

I've heard the soft pulses of oar and guitar; 
But sweeter the rhythmical rush of the gallop, 

The fire in the saddle, the flight of the star. 
Old mare, my beloved, no stouter or faster 

Hath ever strode under a man at his need ; 
But glad in the hand and embrace of thy master, 

And pant to the passionate music of speed. 

Can there e'er be a thought to an elderly person 

So keen, so inspiring, so hard to forget, 
So fully adapted to break into burgeon 

As this — that the steel isn't out of him yet ; 
That flying speed tickles one's brain with a feather; 

That one's horse can restore one the years that 
are gone ; 
That, spite of gray winter and weariful weather, 

The blood and the pace carry on, carry on ? 

R. S. J. TVRWHITT. 

THE WINDY NIGHT. 

LOW and aloof, 

Over the roof, 

How the midnight tempests howl ! 
With a dreary voice, like the dismal tune 
Of wolves that bay at the desert moon ; 

Or whistle and shriek 

Through limbs that creak. 

"Tu-who! Tu-whit!" 

They cry, and flit, 
" Tu-whit ! Tu-who !" like the solemn owl I 

Alow and aloof, 
Over the roof. 



A 



Sweep the moaning winds amain, ; 

And wildly dash 

The elm and ash, 
Clattering on the window sash 

With a clatter and patter 

Like hail and rain. 

That well-nigh shatter 

The dusky pane 1 

Alow and aloof. 

Over the roof. 
How the tempests swell and roar ! 

Though no foot is astir, 

Though the cat and the cur 
Lie dozing along the kitchen floor, 

There are feet of air 

On every stair — 

Through every hall ! 

Through each gusty door 

There's a jostle and bustle, 

With a silken rustle. 
Like the meeting of guests at a festival ! 

Alow and aloof, 

Over the roof, 
How the stormy tempests swell ! 

And make the vane 

On the spire complain ; 
They heave at the steeple with might and main, 

And burst and sweep 

Into the belfry, on the bell I 
They smite it so hard, and they smite it so well. 

That the sexton tosses his arms in sleep. 
And dreams he is ringing a funeral knell ! 

T. B. Read. 



w 



THE OWL. 

HILE the moon, with sudden gleam, 
Through the clouds that cover busr. 
Darts her light upon the stream, 
And the poplars gently stir ; 
Pleased I hear thy boding cry, 
Owl, that lov'st the cloudy sky ! 
Sure thy notes are harmony. 

While the maiden, pale with care, 

Wanders to the lonely shade. 
Sighs her sorrows to the air, 

While the flowerets round her fade,— 
Shrinks to hear thy boding cry; 
Owl, that lovst the cloudy sky, 
To her it is not harmony. 

While the wretch with mournful dole. 

Wrings his hands in agonv, 
Praying for his brother's soul. 
Whom he pierced suddenly, — 
Shrinks to hear thy boding cry ; 
Owl, that lov'st the cloudy sky. 
To him it is not harmony. 




THOMAS MOORE. 




JAMES WHITCOMB RILEV. 



POETRY OF THE YEAR: 

COMPRISING 

Poems on the Seasons, Including Flowers and Birds. 

THE YEAR'S TWELVE CHILDREN. 

ANUARY, wan and gray, 

Like an old pilgrim by the way, 
Watches the snow, and shivering sighs 
As the wild curlew round him flies, 
Or, huddled underneath a thorn. 
Sits praying for the lingering morn. 

February, bluff and cold, 
O'er furrows striding scorns the cold. 
And with his horses two abreast 
Makes the keen plough do his behest. 

Rough March comes blustering down the road. 
In his wrathy hand the oxen goad ; 
Or, with a rough and angry haste, 
Scatters the seeds o'er the dark waste. 

April, a child, half tears, half smiles, 

Trips full of little playful wiles ; 
And laughing, 'neath her rainbow hood. 
Seeks the wild violets in the wood. 




May, the bright maiden, singing goes. 
To where the snowy hawthorn blows. 
Watching the lambs leap in the dells, 
List'ning the simple village bells. 

Ji'NE, with the mower's scarlet face. 
Moves o'er the clover field apace. 
And fast his crescent scythe sweeps on 
O'er spots from whence the lark has flown. 

July, the farmer, happy fellow, 
Laughs to see the corn grow yellow ; 
The heavy grain he tosses up 
From his right hand as from a cup. 

August, the reaper, cleaves his way. 
Through golden waves at break of day ; 
Or in his wagon, piled with corn, 
At sunset home is proudly borne. 

September, with his baying hound, 
Leaps fence and pale at every bound, 
And casts into the wind in scorn, 
All cares and dangers from his horn. 

October comes, a woodman old. 
Fenced with tough leather from the cold ; 
Round swings his sturdy axe. and lo ! 
A fir branch falls at every blow. 



November cowers before the flame, 
Blear crone, forgetting her own name ! 
Watching the blue smoke curling rise. 
And broods upon old memories. 

December, fat and rosy, strides. 

His old heart warm, well clothed his sides; 

With kindly word for young and old, 

The cheerier for the bracing cold, 

Laughing a welcome, open flings 

His doors, and as he goes he sings. 

JOY OF SPRING. 

FOR lo ! no sooner has the cold withdrawn. 
Than the bright elm is tufted on the lawn ; 
The merry sap has run up in the bovvers. 
And burst the windows of the buds in flowers; 
With song the bosoms of the birds run o'er. 
The cuckoo calls, the swallow's at the door, 
And apple-trees at noon, with bees alive, 
Burn with the golden chorus of the hive. 
Now all these sweets, these sounds, this vernal 

blaze 
Is but one joy, expressed a thousand ways ; 
And honey from the flowers, and song from birds. 
Are from the poet's pen his overflowing words. 

Leigh Hunt. 

101 



102 



POETRY OF THE YEAR. 




SPRING. 



I COME ! I come ! ye have called me long — 
I come o'er the mountains with light and song! 
Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth 
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth, 
By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass, 
By the green leaves opening as 1 pass. 

I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut 

flowers 
By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers, 
And the ancient graves and the fallen fanes 
Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains; — 
But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, 
To speak of the ruin or the tomb ! 

I have looked on the hills of the stormy North, 

And the larch has hung all his tassels forth, 

The fisher is out on the sunny sea. 

And the reindeer bounds o'er the pastures free, 

And the pine has a fringe of softer green. 

And the moss looks bright where my foot hath been. 



I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh. 
And called out each voice of the deep blue sky ; 
From the night bird's lay through the starry time, 
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime, 
To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes. 
When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks. 

From the streamsand founts I have loosed the chain; 
They are sweeping on to the silvery main, 
They are flashing down from the mountain brows, 
They are flinging spray o'er the forest boughs, 
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves. 
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves ! 

Come forth, O ye children of gladness ! come ! 
Where the violets lie may be now your home. 
Ye of the rose-lip and dew-bright eye, 
And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly ! 
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay. 
Come forth to the sunshine — I may not stay. 

Felicia D. Hemans. 



MARCH. 



HE cock is crowing, 

The stream is flowing. 
The small birds twitter. 
The lake doth glitter. 
The green field sleeps in thesun; 
The oldest and youngest ; 
Are at work with the 

strongest ; 
The cattle are grazing, 
Their heads never raising ; 
There are forty feeding like one ! 




Like an army defeated, 

The snow hath retreated. 

And now doth fare ill 

Cn the top of the bare hill; 
The ploughboy is whooping — anon — anon 

There's joy on the mountains ; 

There's life in the fountains; 

Small clouds are sailing, 

Blue sky prevailing ; 
The rain is over and gone ! 

William Wordsworth. 



/ ^ 



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A MARCH DAY. 



103 



104 



POETRY OF THE YEAR. 







APRIL-LARK. 

Rejoicing bird : whose wings have cleft the blue 

And those far heights of morning sky have scaled : 
Youth loves to watch thee, but with sighs watc'.i 
those 
Whose wings grow wearied, and whose hopes have 
failed. 



DAY: A PASTORAL. 



"SWIFTLY from the mountain's brow, 
^ Shadows, nursed by night, retir 

-^ And the peeping sunbeam, now, 

Paints with gold the village spire. 

Philomel forsakes the thorn. 

Plaintive where she prates at night ; 

And the lark, to meet the morn. 
Soars beyond the shepherd's sight. 

From the low-roofed cottage ridge. 
See the chatt'ring swallow spring ; 

Darting through the one-arched bridge, 
Quick she dips her dappled wing. 

Now the pine-tree's waving top 
Gently greets the morning gale! 

THE 

HAPPY insect, what can be, 
In happiness compared to thee? 
Fed with nourishment divine, 
The dewy morning's gentle wine ! 
Nature waits upon thee still, 
And thy verdant cup does fill ; 
'Tis filled wherever thou dost tread, 
Nature self's thy Ganymede. 
Thou dost drink and dance and sing, 
Happier than the happiest king ! 
All the fields which thou dost see, 
All the plants belong to thee ; 
All the summer hours produce. 
Fertile made with early juice. 
Man for thee does sow and plough, 



Kidlings, now, begin to crop 
Daisies, in the dewy dale. 

From the balmy sweets, uncloyed 
(Restless till her task be done). 

Now the busy bee's employed 
Sipping dew before the sun. 

Trickling through the creviced rock. 
Where the limpid stream distils. 

Sweet refreshment waits the flock 
When 'tis sun-drove from the hills. 

Sweet — O sweet, the warbling throng. 

On the white emblossomed spra\' ! 
Nature's universal song 
Echoes to the rising day. 

John Cunningham. 
GRASSHOPPER. 

Farmer he, and landlord thou ! 

Thou dost innocently enjoy. 

Nor does thy luxury destroy. 

The shepherd gladly heareth thee. 

More harmonious than he, 

The country hinds with gladness hear. 

Prophet of the ripened year ! 

To thee, of all things upon earth, 

Life is no longer than thy mirth. 

Happy insect ! happy thou, 

Dost neither age nor winter know; 

But when thou'st drunk and danced and sung 

Thy fill, the flowery leaves among. 

Sated with thy summer feast, 

Thou retir'st to endless rest. 

Abraham Cowley. 



POETRY OF THE YEAR. 



105 



APRIL. 

NOVV daisies pied, and violets blue, 
And lady-smocks all silver-white. 
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue. 
Do paint the meadows with delight; 
The cuckoo now on every tree, 
Sings cuckoo ! cuckoo ! 

William Shakespeare. 



L 




A WALK BY THE WATER. 

ET us walk where reeds are growing, 
By the alders in the mead; 
Where the crystal streams are flowing, 
In whose waves the fishes feed. 



There the golden carp is laving. 

With the trout, the perch, and bream; 

Mark ! their flexile fins are waving, 
As they glance along the stream. 

Now they sink in deeper billows, 

Now upon the surface rise ; 
Or, from under roots of willows, 

Dart to catch the water-flies. 

Midst the reeds and pebbles hiding, 

See the minnow and the roach ; 
Or, by water-lilies gliding. 

Shun with fear our near approach. 

Do not dread us, timid fishes, 
We have neither net nor hook ; 

Wanderers we, whose only wishes 
Are to read in nature's book. 
Charlotte Smith. 



N' 



BUD AND BLOOM. 

0\V fades the last long streak 
of snow. 
Now burgeons every maze 
of quick 
About the flowering squares and 
thick 
By ashen roots the violets blow. 

Now rings the woodland loud and long, 
The distance takes a lovelier hue, 
And drowned in yonder living blue 

The lark becomes a sightless song. 

^ Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, 
The flocks are whiter down the vale, 
And milkier every milky sail, 
On winding stream or distant sea ; 

Where now the seamew pipes, or dives 
In yonder greening gleam, and fly 
The happy birds, that change their sky 

To build and brood, that li\e their lives 

From land to land ; and in my breast 
Spring wakens too : and my regret 
Becomes an April violet, 

And buds and blossoms like the rest. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



THE OPEN DAY. 



OFT have I listen'd to a voice that spake 
Of cold and dull realities of life. 
Deem we not thus of life ; for we may fetch 
Light from a hidden glory, which shall clothe 



The meanest thing that is with hues of heaven. 
Our light should be the broad and open day ; 
And as we lose its shining, we shall look 
Still on the bright and daylight face of things. 

Henry Alford. 



106 



POETRY OF THE YEAR. 




No new son_j biiigs the Nightingale, 

And no new month she finds for singing; 

She sings the sweet old song of love, 

When May her fairest flowers is bringing. 



THE PRIMROSE. 



WELCOME, pale primrose ! starting up 
between 
Dead matted leaves of ash and oak, that 
strew 
The every lawn, the wood, and spinny 
through ; 
'Mid creeping moss and ivy's darker green ; 

How much thy presence beautifies the ground, 
How sweet thy modest, unaffected pride. 



Glows on the sunny bank, and wood's warm side ! 

And when thy fairy flowers in groups are found, 
The schoolboy roams enchantedly along, 

Plucking the fairest with a rude delight ; 
While the meek shepherd stops his simple song. 

To gaze a moment on the pleasing sight ; 
O'erjoyed to see the flowers that truly bring 
The welcome news of sweet returning spring. 

John Clare. 




M 



A TRIBUTE TO MAY. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF CONRAD OF KIRCHBERG. 



AY, sweet May, again is come — 
May that frees the land from gloom ; 
Children, children ! up and see 
All her stores of jollity. 
On the laughing hedgerow's side 
She hath spread her treasures wide ; 
She is in the greenwood shade, 
Where the nightingale hath made 
Every branch and every tree 
Ring with her sweet uulody : 



Hill and dale are May's own treasures, 
Youths, rejoice ! In sportive measures 

Sing ye ! join the chorus gay ! 

Hail this merry, merry May ! 
Up ! then, children ! we will go. 
Where the blooming roses grow ; 
In a joyful company. 
We the bursting flowers will see ; 
Up, your festal dress prepare ! 
Where gay hearts are meeting, there 



POETRY OF THE YEAR. 



107 



May hath pleasures most inviting, 
Heart, and sight, and ear delighting. 
Listen to the bird's sweet song. 
Hark ! how soft it floats along. 
Courtly dames ! our pleasure share ; 



Never saw I May so fair : 
Therefore, dancing will we go, 
Youths, rejoice ! the flow'rets blow ! 

Sing ye ! join the chorus gay ! 

Hail this merry, merry May ! 

William Roscoe. 



THE WOODLAND IN SPRING. 



E'EN in the spring and playtime of the year. 
That calls the unwonted villager abroad 
With all her little ones, a sportive train. 
To gather kingcups in the yellow mead, 



Sits cooing in the pine-tree, nor suspends 
His long love-ditty for my near approach. 
Drawn from his refuge in some lovely elm. 
That age or injury has hollowed deep, 

Where, on his bed of wool and matted 

leaves, 
He has outslept the winter, ventures 
forth 
To frisk awhile, and bask in the 

warm sun. 
The squirrel, flippant, pert, and 
full of play. 







And prink their hair with daisies, or to pick 
A cheap but wholesome salad from the brook : 
These shades are all my own. The timorous hare. 
Grown so familiar with her frequent guest. 
Scarce shuns me ; and the stock dove, unalarmed, 



" He sees me, and at 

once, swift as a bird, 
Ascends the neighboring beech ; there whisks his 

brush, 
And perks his ears, and stamps and cries aloud. 
With all the prettiness of feigned alarm, 
And anger insignificantly fierce. 

William Cowper. 



BREATHINGS OF SPRING. 



WHATwakest thou, Spring? Sweet voices 
in the woods, 
And reed-like echoes, that long have 
been mute ; 
Thou bringest back to fill the solitudes. 

The lark's clear pipe, the cuckoo's viewless flute. 
Whose tone seems breathing mournfulness or 
glee. 
E'en as our hearts may be. 



And the leaves greet thee. Spring! — the joyous 
leaves, 
Whose tremblings gladden many a copse and 
glade, 
Where each young spray a rosy flush receives. 
When thy south wind hath pierced the whispery 
shade. 
And happy murmurs, running through the grass. 
Tell that thy footsteps pass. 



108 



POETRY OF THE YEAR. 



And the bright waters — they too hear thy call, 
Spring, the awakener ! thou hast burst their 
sleep ! 
Amidst the hollows of the rocks their fall 
Makes melody, and in the forests deep. 
Where sudden sparkles and blue gleams betray 
Their winding to the day. 

And flowers — the fairy-peopled world of flowers ! 

Thou from the dust hast set that glory free, 
Coloring the cowslip with the sunny hours. 

And pencilling the wood anemone : 
Silent they seem — yet each to thoughtful eye 
Glows with mute poesy. 

But what awakest thou in the heart, O Spring I 
The human heart, with all its dreams and sighs? 

Thou that givest back so many a buried thing. 
Restorer of forgotten harmonies! 

Fresh songs and scents break forth, where'er thou art, 
What wakest thou in the heart ? 

Vain longings for the dead ! — why come they back 
With thy young birds, and leaves and living 
blooms ? 
Oh ! is it not, that from thine earthly track 
Hope to thy world may look beyond the tombs ? 
Yes, gentle Spring ! no sorrow dims thine air, 
Breathed by our loved ones there ! 

I'elicia D. Hemans. 

CORINNA'S GOING A-MAYING. 

GET up, get up for shame ! the blooming morn 
Upon her wings presents the God unshorn ! 
See how Aurora throws her fair 
Fresh-quilted colors through the air ! — 
Get up, sweet slug-a-bed I and see 
The dew bespangling herb and tree. 
Each flower has wept and bowed towards the east 
Above an hour since, )et you are not dressed ! — 
Nay, not so much as out of bed. 
When all the birds have matins said, 
And sung their thankful hymns : 'tis sin — 
Nay, profanation, to keep in. 
Whereas a thousand virgins on this day 
Spring sooner than the lark, to fetch in May! 

Come, my Corinna ! come, and coming, mark 
How each field turns a street— each street a park. 

Made green, and trimmed with trees ! — see how 

Devotion gives each house a bough 

Or branch ! — each porch, each door, ere this 

An ark, a tabernacle is. 
Made up of whitehorn neatly interwove, 
As if here were those cooler shades of love. 

Can such delights be in the street 

And open fields, and we not .see 't? 

Come, we'll abroad, and let's obey 

The proclamation made for May, 
And sin no more, as we have done by staying, 
But, my Corinna ! come let's go a-Maying. 



Come, let us go, while we are in our prime. 
And take the harmless folly of the time ; 

We shall grow old apace and die 

Before we know our liberty. 

Our life is short, and our days run 

As fast away as does the sun : 
And as a vapor, or a drop of rain. 
Once lost, can ne'er be found again. 

So when or you or I are made 

A fable, song, or fleeting shade, 

All love, all liking, all delight, 

Lies drowned with us in endless night. 
Then while time serves, and we are but decaying. 
Come, my Corinna ! come, let's go a-Maying. 

Robert Herrick. 

THE EARTHS GLADNESS. 

THE earth with Spring's first flowers is glad. 
The skies, the seas are blue. 
But still shall finer spirits turn 
With hearts that long, and souls that burn, 
And for some ghostly whiteness yearn 
Some glimpses of the true ; 
Chasing some fair ideal sweet. 
Breathless with bleeding feet. 

High Summer comes with warmth and light. 

The populous cities teem 

Through statue-decked perspectives, long, 

Aglow with painting, lit with song. 

Surges the busy, world-worn throng. 

But, ah ! not these their dream. 

Not these, like that white ghost allure, 

August, celestial, pure. 

Crowning the cloud-based ramparts, shines 

The city of their love, 

Now soft with fair reflected light, 

And now intolerably bright, 

Dazzling the feeble, struggling sight. 

It beckons from above. 

It gleams above the untrodden snows, 

Flushed by the dawn's weird rose. 

It gleams, it grows, it sinks, it fades. 

While up the perilous height, 

From the safe, cloistered walls ot home. 

Low cot, or aery ]ialace dome. 

The faithful pilgrims boldly come. 

Though Heaven be veiled in night. 

They come, they climb, they dare not stay 

Whose feet forerun the day. 

And some through midnight darkness fall 

Missing the illumined sky ; 

And some with cleansed heart and mind, 

And souls to lower splendors blind. 

The city of their longing find, 

Clear to the mortal eye. 

For all yet here, or far beyond the sun, 

At last the height is won. Lewis R. Morris. 



I— 



%. 





fc> ^_ 



A FAIR BEGINNER 



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c 

Q 
k4 
O 
O 



POETRY OF THE YEAR. 



109 



ON MAY 

day's har- 



from the East, and leads 



NOW the bright morning-star, 
binger, 
Comes dancini 
with her 
The flowery May, who from her green lap throws 
The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose. 



MORNING. 

Hail bounteous May ! that dost inspire 
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire ; 
Woods and groves are of thy dressing, 
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. 
Thus we salute thee with our early song, 
And welcome thee, and wish thee long. 

John Milton. 




SUMMER EVE. 



OWN the sultry arc of day 
The burning wheels have 



The burning wheels have urged 
way, 

And Eve along the western skies 
Spreads her intermingling dyes; 
Down the deep, the miry lane, 
Creaking comes the empty wain ; 
And driver on the shaft-horse sits, 
Whistling now and then by fits. 
The barn is still — the master's gone — 
And thresher jmts his jacket on ; 
While Dick upon the ladder tall 
Nails the dead kite to the wall. 

Here comes Shepherd Jack at last, 
He has penned the sheepcot fast ; 
For 'twas but two nights before 
A lamb was eaten on the moor ; 
His empty wallet Rover carries — 
Now for Jack, when near home, tarries ; 
With lolling tongue he runs to try 
If the horse-trough be not dry. 

The milk is settled in the pans, 
And supper messes in the cans ; 
In the hovel carts are wheeled. 
And both the colts are drove a-field : 
The horses are all bedded up. 



their 



And the ewe is with the tup. 
The siiare for Mister Fox is set, 
The leaven laid, the thatching wet, 
And Bess has slinked away to talk 
With Roger in the holly walk. 

Now on the settle all but Bess 
Are set, to eat their supper mess ; 
And little Tom and roguish Kate 
Are swinging on the meadow gate. 
Now they chat of various things — 
Of taxes, ministers, and kings; 
Or else tell all the village news — 
How madam did the 'squire refuse, 
How parson on his tithes was bent. 
And landlord oft distrained for rent. 

Thus do they, till in the sky 

The pale-eyed moon is mounted high. 

The mistress sees that lazy Kate 

The happing coal on kitchen grate 

Has laid — while master goes throughout. 

Sees shutter fast, the mastiff out; 

The candles safe, the hearths all clear, 

And nought from thieves or fire to fear; 

Then both to bed together creep, 

And join the general troop of sleep. 

Henry Kirke White. 



110 



POETRY OF THE YEAR. 



CHILDREN IN SPRING. 



THE snow has left the cottage-top; 
The thatch moss grows in brighter green ; 
And eaves in quick succession drop, 
Where grinning icicles have been, 
Pit-patting with a pleasant noise 

In tubs set by the cottage-door; 
While ducks and geese, with happy joys, 
Plunge in the yard-pond brimming o'er. 



The sun peeps through the window-pane. 

Which children mark with laughing eye, 
And in the wet street steal again. 

To tell each other spring is nigh. 
Then as young hope the past recalls, 

In playing groups they often draw, 
To build beside the sunny walls 

Their spring-time huts of sticks or straw. 




And oft in pleasure's dream they hie 

Round homesteads by the village sidp 
Scratching the hedge-row mosses by, 

Where painted pooty shells abide; 
Mistaking oft the ivy spray 

For leaves that come with budding spring, 
And wondering, in their search for play, 

Why birds delay to build and sing. 



THE 



G 



O, lovely rose ! 

Tell her that wastes her time and me 
That now she knows, 
When I resemble her to thee. 
How sweet and fair she seems to be. 

Tell her that's young. 
And shuns to have her graces spied, 

That hadst thou sprung 
In deserts where no men abide. 
Thou must have uncommended died. 



The mavis thrush, with wild delight, 
Upon the orchard's dripping tree 
Mutters, to see the day so bright 

Fragments of young hope's poesy; 
And dame oft stops her buzzing wheel. 
To hear the robin's note once more, 
Who tootles while he pecks his meal 
j From sweet-brier buds beside the door 

John Clare. 
ROSE. 

I Small is the worth 

Of beauty from the light retired ! 

Bid her come forth — 
Suffer herself to be desired. 
And not blush so to be admired. 

Then die, that she 
The common fate of all things rare 

May read in thee — 
How small a part of time they share 
That are so wondrous sweet and fair. 

Edmund W.^ller. 



r 



I J 1 



|||. I 1,1' ,-^ f 




A SPRING ROSE. 



Ill 



112 



POETRY OF THE YEAR. 



MORNING IN SUMMER. 

AND soon, observant of approaching day, 
The meek-eyed morn appears, mother of 
dews. 
At first faint gleaming in the dappled east ; 
Till far o'er ether spreads the winding glow. 
And from before the lustre of her face 
White break the clouds away. With quickened 

step, 
Brown night retires: young day pours in apace. 
And opens all the lawny prospect wide. 
The dripping rock, the mountain's misty top, 
Swell on the sight, and brighten with the 

dawn. 
Blue, through the dusk, the smoking currents 

shine ; 
And from the bladed field the fearful hare 
Limps, awkward : while along the forest 

glade 



w 



A JUNE DAY, 

HO has not dreamed a world of bliss, 
On a bright, sunny noon like tliis, 

Couched by his native brook's green maze. 
With comrade of his boyish days? 
While all around them seemed to be 
Just as in joyous infancy. 

Who has not loved, at such an hour, 
Upon that heath, in birchen bower, 
Lulled in the poet's dreamy mood, 
Its wild and sunny solitude ? 




The wild deer trip, and, often turning, gaze 

At early passenger. Music awakes 

The native voice of undissembled joy ; 

And thick around the woodland hymns arise. 

Roused by the cock, the soon-clad shepherd 

leaves 
His mossy cottage, where with peace he dwells ; 
And from the crowded fold, in order, drives 
His flock, to taste the verdure of the morn. 
But yonder comes the powerful king of day, 
Rejoicing in the east ! The lessening cloud, 
The kindling azure, and the mountain's brow 
Illumed with fluid gold, his near approach 
Betoken glad. Lo ! now, apparent all, 
Aslant the dew-bright earth, and colored air, 
He looks in boundless majesty abroad ; 
And sheds the shining day, that burnished plays 
On rocks, and hills and towers, and wandering 

streams, 
High-gleaming from afar. 

James Thomson. 



While o'er the waste of purple ling 
You marked a sultry glimmering ; 
Silence herself there seems to sleep. 
Wrapped in a slumber long and deep. 
Where slowly stray those lonely sheep 
Through the tall fox-gloves' crimson bloom, 
And gleaming of the scattered broom. 

Love you not, then, to list and hear 
The crackling of the gorse-flowers near, 
Pouring an orange-scented tide 
Of fragrance o'er the desert wide? 
'l"o hear the buzzard whimpering shrill 
Hovering above you high and still? 
The twittering of the bird that dwells 
Amongst the heath's delicious bells? 
While round your bed, or fern and blade. 
Insects in green and gold arrayed. 
The sun's gay tribes have lightly strayed 
And sweeter sound their humming wings 
Tlian the proud minstrel's echoing strings. 
William Howitt. 



POETRY OF THE YEAR. 



113 







H 



REPOSE IN SUMMER. 

ER eyelids dropped their silken eaves, 
I breathed upon her eyes, 
Through all the summer of my leaves, 
A welcome mixed with sighs. 



Sometimes I let a sunbeam slip 

To light her shaded eye ; 
A second fluttered round her lip, 

Like a golden butterfly. 

Alfred Tennyson. 

SONNET ON COUNTRY LIFE. 

TO one who has been long in city pent, 
'Tis very sweet to look into the fair 
And open lace of heaven — to breathe 
prayer 
Full in the smile of the blue firmament. 
Who is more happy, when, with heart's cor 
tent. 
Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair 
Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair 
And gentle tale of love and languishment ? 
Returning home at evening, with an ear 

Catching the notes of Philomel — an eye 
Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career. 
He mourns that day so soon has glided by: 
E'en like the passage of an angel's tear 
That falls through the clear ether silently. 

John Keats. 



THE BLACKBIRD. 



O BLACKBIRD ! sing me something well : 
While all the neighbors shoot the round, 
I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground. 
Where thou may'st warble, eat, and dwell. 

The espaliers and the standards all 

Are thine ; the range of lawn and park ; 
The unnetted black-hearts ripen dark, 

All thine, against the garden wall. 

Yet, tho' I spared thee all the spring, 

Thy sole delight is, sitting still, 
With that gold dagger of thy bill 
To fret the summer jenneting. 

A golden bill ! the silver tongue. 

Cold February loved, is dry : 

Plenty corrupts the melody 
That made thee famous once, when young : 

And in the sultry garden-squares. 

Now thy flute-notes are changed to coarse, 

I hear thee not at all, or hoarse 
As when a hawker hawks his wares. 

Take warning ! he that will not sing 
While yon sun prospers in the blue. 
Shall sing for want, ere leaves are new, 

Caught in the frozen palms of spring. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



114 



POETRY OF THE YEAR. 



AUGUST— WREN. 

" Little wren. 

why do you warble ? 
Blackbird was 

singing at dawn, 
Thrush will be here 

in the twilight, 
Nightingale then, 

sweet and lorn." 





" One hour of day would be silent 
If I should pause in my sonj 
You may not care for my music — 
One answering heart listens long." 



SUMMER REVERIE. 



I STOOD tiptoe upon a little hill, 
The air was cooling, and so very still, 
That the sweet buds which with a modest pride 
Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside. 
Their scanty-leaved, and finely-tapering stems. 
Had not yet lost their starry diadems 
Caught from the early sobbing of the morn. 
The clouds were pure and white as flocks new 

shorn, 
And fresh from the clear brook ; sweetly they slept 
On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept 
A little noiseless noise among the leaves. 
Born of the very sigh that silence heaves ; 
For not the faintest motion could be seen 
Of all the shades that slanted o'er the green. 

There was wide wandering for the greediest eye, 
To peer about upon variety ; 
Far round the horizon's crystal air to skim, 
And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim ; 



' To picture out the quaint and curious bending 
Of a fresh woodland alley never-ending : 
Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves, 
Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves. 

I gazed awhile, and felt as light and free 

As though the fanning wings of Mercury 

Had played upon my heels : I was light-heartea, 

And many pleasures to my vision started ; 

So I straightway began to pluck a posy 

Of luxuries bright, milky, soft, and rosy. 

A bush of May-flowers with the bees about tl-.em j 
Ah, sure no tasteful nook could be without them ! 
And let a lush laburnum oversweep them. 
And let long grass grow round the roots to keep 

them 
Moist, cool, and green ; and shade the violets, 
That they may bind the moss in leafy nets. 

John Keats. 



SHEPHERD AND FLOCK. 



AROUND the adjoining brook, that purls along 
The vocal grove, now fretting o'er a rock. 
Now scarcely moving through a reedy pool. 
Now starting to a sudden stream, and now 
Gently diffused into a limpid plain ; 
A various group the herds and flocks compose. 
Rural confusion ! On the grassy bank 
Some ruminating lie ; while others stand 
Half in the flood, and often bending sip 



The circling surface. In the middle droops 
The strong laborious ox, of honest front. 
Which incomposed he shakes ; and from his sides 
The troublous insects lashes with his tail. 
Returning still. Amid his subjects safe 
Slumbers the monarch-swain, his careless arm 
Thrown round his head, on downy moss sustained 
Here laid his scrip, with wholesome viands filled; 
There, listening every noise, his watchful dog. 

James Thomson. 



POETRY OF THE YEAR. 



115 



A WINTER SKETCH. 



THE blessed morn has come again ; 
The early gray 
Taps at the slumberer's window-pane, 
And seems to say, 
Break, break from the enchanter's chain. 
Away, away ! 



'■ lis winter, yet there is no sound 

Along the air 
Of winds along their battle-ground ; 

But gently there 
The snow is falling — all around 

How fair, how fair! Ralph Hci: 




-k.^!.:lli'^j^>f 



Y 



TO MEADOWS. 



E have been fresh and green ; 

Ye have been filled with flowers; 
And ye the walks have been 

Where maids have spent their hours. 



Ye have beheld where they 
With wicker arks did come, 

To kiss and bear away 

The richer cowslips home ; 

Y'ou've heard them sweetly sing, 
And seen them in a round ; 



Each virgin, like the spring. 
With honeysuckles crowned. 

But now we see none here 
Whose silvery feet did tread, 

And with dishevelled hair 
Adorned this smoother mead. 

Like unthrifts, having spent 
Your stock, and needy grown, 

You're left here to lament 
Your poor estates alone. 

Robert Herrioc. 



116 



POETRY OF THE YEAR. 



A SONG FOR THE SEASONS. 



w 



HEN the merry lark doth gild 

Witli his song the summer hours, 
And their nests the swallows build 
In the roofs and tops of towers, 
And the golden broom-flower burns 

All about the waste, 
And the maiden May returns 
With a pretty haste — 

Then, how merry are the times ! 
The summer times ! the spring times! 

Now, from off the ashy stone 

The chilly midnight cricket crieth, 
And all merry birds are flown. 

And our dream of pleasure dieth ; 
Now the once blue, laughing sky 

Saddens into gray. 
And the frozen rivers sigh. 

Pining all away ! 

Now, how solemn are the times ! 
The winter times ! the night times ! 

Yet, be merry : all around 

Is through one vast change revolving ; 
Even night, who lately frowned, 

Is in paler dawn dissolving ; 
Earth will burst her fetters strange. 

And in S])ring grow free ; 
All things in the world will change. 
Save — my love for thee ! 

Sing then, hopeful are all times ! 
Winter, summer, spring times ! 

Barry Cornwall. 

SUMMER'S HAUNTS. 

UNTO me, glad summer. 
How hast thou flown to me ? 
My chain less footsteps nought hath kept 
From thy haunts of song and glee ; 
Thou hast flown in wayward visions, 

In memories of the dead — 
In shadows from a troubled heart. 
O'er thy sunny pathway shed. 

Felicia D. Hemans. 



5T-^I 



THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. 

^IS the last rose of summer 
Left blooming alone ; 
All her lovely companions 
Are faded and gone ; 
No flower of her kindred. 

No rosebud is nigh, 
To reflect back her blushes, 
Or give sigh for sigh ! 

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one, 

To pine on the stem : 
Since the lovely are sleeping, 

Go, sleep thou with them. 



Thus kindly I scatter 

Thy leaves o'er the bed 
Where thy mates of the garden 

Lie scentless and dead. 

So soon may I follow. 

When friendships decay. 
And from love's shining circle 

The gems drop away ! 
When true hearts lie withered 

And fond ones are flown. 
Oh ! who would inhabit 

This bleak world alone? 

Thomas Moore. 

FAIR SUMMER. 

THE spring's gay promise melted into thee, 
Fair summer ! and thy gentle reign is 
here ; 
Thy emerald robes are on each leafy tree ; 
In the blue sky thy voice is rich and clear ; 
And the free brooks have songs to bless thy 

reign — • 
They leap in music 'midst thy bright domain. 

Thus gazing on thy void and sapphire sky, 
O, summer ! in my inmost soul arise 

Uplifted thoughts, to which the woods reply. 
And the bland air with its soft melodies — 

Till basking in some vision's glorious ray, 
I long for eagles' plumes to flee away ! 

Willis G. Clark. 

A DAY IN AUTUMN. 

THERE was not, on that day, a speck to stain 
The azure heaven ; the blessed sun, alone, 
In unapproachable divinity. 
Careered, rejoicing in his fields of light. 
How beautiful, beneath the bright blue sky. 
The billows heave ! one glowing green expanse. 
Save where along the bending line of shore 
Such hue is known as when the peacock's neck 
Assumes its proudest tint of amethyst, 
Embathed in emerald glory. All the flocks 
Of ocean are abroad : like floating foam. 
The sea-gulls rise and fall upon the waves ; 
With long-protruded neck the cormorants 
Wing their far flight aloft, and round and round 
The plovers wheel, and give their note of joy. 

It was a day that sent into the heart 

A summer feeling : even the insect swarms 

From their dark nooks and coverts issued forth. 

To sport through one day of existence more ; 

The solitary primrose on the bank 

Seemed now as though it had no cause to mourn 

Its bleak autumnal birth ; the rocks and shores, 

The forest, and the everlasting hills. 

Smiled in that joyful sunshine — they partook 

The universal blessing. 

Robert Southey. 




JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 



IW 



.-(» » 





'^. 





ROBERT BURNS AND HIS HICHLAXH MARY 



POETRY OF THE YEAR. 



117 



SEPTEMBER— CURLEW. 

White breakers foam upon the desolate sands. 
The gray sea-grass bends in the freshening breeze, 
And, heard with winds and waves, the curlew's cry 
Blends in a wild sea music that can please. 




A SONG FOR SEPTEMBER. 

SEPTEMBER strews the woodland o'er 
With many a brilliant color ; 
The world is brighter than before — • 
Why should our hearts be duller? 
Sorrow and the scarlet kaf, 

Sad thoughts and sunny weather ! 
Ah me ! this glory and this grief 
Agree not well together. 

This is the parting season — this 

The time when friends are flying ; 
And lovers now, with many a kiss, 

Their long farewells are sighing. 
Why is earth so gayly drest? 

This jiomp that autumn beareth, 
A funeral seems, where e\ery guest 

A bridal garment weareth. 

Each one of us, perchance, may here, 

On some blue morn hereafter. 
Return to view the gaudy year, 

But not wiih boyish laughter. 
We shall then be wrinkled men, 

Our brows wi'h silver laden, 
And thou this glen mayst seek again, 

But nevermore a maiden ! 

Nature perhaps foresees that spring 
Will touch her teeming bosom, 

And that a few brief months will bring 
The bird, the bee, the blossom ; 



Ah ! these forests do not know — 
Or would less brightly wither — 

The virgin that adorns them so 
Will never more come hither ! 

Thoivias William Parsons^ 

SERENITY OF AUTUMN. 

BUT see the fading many-colored woods, 
Shade deepening over shade, the country 
round 
Imbrown ; a crowded umbrage, dusk and dun. 
Of every hue, from wan declining green 
To sooty dark. These now the lonesome Muse, 
Low whispering, lead into their leaf-strown walks. 
And give the season in its latest view. 

Meantime, light shadowing all, a sober calm 
Fleeces unbounded eth r : whose least wave 
Stands tremulous, uniertain where to turn 
The gentle current : while illumined wide. 
The dewy-skirted clouds imbibe the sun. 
And through their lucid veil his softened force 
Shed o'er the peaceful world. Then is the time, 
For those whom virtue and whom nature charm. 
To steal themselves from the degenerate crowd, 
.'^nd soar above this little scene of things ; 
To tread low-thoughted vice beneath their feet \ 
To soothe th_- throbbing passions into peace; 
And woo lone quiet in her silent walks. 

Thus solitary, and in ])ensive guise, 
Oft let me wander o'er the russet mead, 
And through the saddened grove, where scarce is 
heard 



118 



POETRY OF THE YEAR. 



One dying strain, to cheer the woodman's toil. 
Haply some widowed songster pours his plaint, 
Far, in faint warblings, through the tawny copse ; 
While congregated thrushes, linnets, larks. 
And each wild throat, whose artless strains so late 
Swelled all the music of the swarming shades, 



The rivers run chill ; 

The red sun is sinking ; 
And I am grown old, 

And life is fast shrinking; 

Here's enough for sad thinking! 

Thomas Hood. 




Robbed of their tuneful souls, now shivering sit 
On the dead tree, a dull despondent flock; 
With not a brightness waving o'er their plumes. 
And nought save chattering discord in their note 

James Thomson. 



T 



AUTUMN. 

HE autumn is old ; 

The sere leaves are flying ; 
He hath gathered up gold, 
And now he is dying : 
Old age, begin sighing ! 

The vintage is ripe ; 
The harvest is heaping ; 

But some that have sowed 
Have no riches for reaping : 
Poor wretch, fall a-weeping ! 

The year's in the wane ; 

There is nothing adorning ; 
The night has no eve. 

And the day has no morning; 

Cold winter gives warning. 



AUTUMN FLOWERS. 

THOSE few pale autumn flowers, 
How beautiful they are ! 
Than all that went before, 
Than all the summer store, 
How lovelier far ! 

And why ? — They are the last ! 

The last ! the last ! the last ! 
Oh! by that little word 
How many thoughts are stirred 

That whisper of the past ! 

Pale flowers! pale perishing flowers! 

Ye're types of precious things ; 
Types of those bitter moments. 
That flit, like life's enjoyments. 

On rapid, rapid wings : 

Last hours with parting dear ones 
(That time the fastest spends), 



POETRY OF THE YEAR. 



119 



Last tears in silence shed. 
Last words iialf uttered, 
Last loolcs of dying friends. 

Who but would fain compress 

A life into a day — 
The last day spent with one 
Wlio, ere the morrow's sun, 

Must leave us, and for aye ? 



The rabbit is cavorting 
Along the gloomy slope, 

The shotgun of the sportsman 
Eliminates his lope. 

The butterfly's departed, 
Likewise the belted bee, 

The small boy in the orchard 
Is up the apple tree. 



OCTOBER— SWALLOW. 

The sky grows dim, the leaves like lost hope fall 
And Swallows, joyous comers long ago. 

Rise up to take departure — summer friends, 
Who leave us lone t<i meet the coming woe. 




precious, precious moments ! 

Pale flowers ! ye' re types of those ; 
The saddest, sweetest, dearest, 
Because, like those, the nearest 

To an eternal close. 

Pali flowers ! pale perishing flowers ! 
, I woo your gentle breath — 

1 leave the summer rose 
For younger, blither brows; 

Tell me of change and death ! 

Caroline B. Southev. 



T 



OCTOBER. 

HE pumpkin pie is yellow. 
The buckwheat cake is brown. 

The farmer's gray neck whiskers 
Are full of thistle down. 



The leaves are crisp and russet, 
The sumac's blazing red, 

The butternut descending 
Is cracked upon your head. 



The county fair is blooming, 
The circus is no more. 

And on the polished brass dogs 
We make the hickory roar. 

The trees wear lovely colors 

In beautiful e.\cess; 
All nature seems to rustle 

Just like a new silk dress. 

The sausage soon will ripen, 
The popcorn soon will pop. 

And Christmas things enliven 
The window of the shop. 

Sing ho ! for merry autumn. 
Sing ho ! for autumn gay, 

Whose pretty ]5otpie squirrels 
Among the branches play. 

For now no merry bluebird 
Upon the rose tree toots, 

And autumn, golden autumn, 
Serenely up and scoots. 



120 



POhTRY OF THE YEAR. 



BEAUTIES OF AUTUMN. 

THE month is now far spent ; and the meri- 
dian sun, 
Most sweetly smiling, with attempered beams, 
Sheds gently down a mild and grateful 
warmth ; 
Beneath its yellow lustre, groves and woods, 



W ith its bright colors intermixed with spots 

Of darker green. Yes, it were sweetly sad 

To wander in the open fields, and hear. 

E'en at this hour, the noon-day hardly past, 

The lulling insects of the summer's night ; 

To hear, where lately buzzing swarms were heard, 

A lonely bee, long roving here and there 




Chequered by one night's frost with various hues. 
While yet no wind has swept a leaf away. 
Shine doubly rich. It were a sad delight 
Down the smooth stream to glide, and see it 

tinged 
Upon each brink with all the gorgeous hues, 
The yellow, red, or jiurple of the trees 
That singly, or in tufts, or forests thick, 
.'N.dorn the shores — to see, perhaps, the side 
Of some high mount reflected far below, 



To find a single flower, but all in vain ; 
Then rising quick, and with a louder hum. 
In widening circles round and round his head. 
Straight by the listener flying clear away, 
As if to bid the fields a last adieu ; 
To hear, within the woodland's sunny side, 
Late full of music, nothing save, perhaps, 
The sound of nut-shells, by the squirrel drojiped 
From some tall beech, fast falling through the 
leaves. Carlos Wilcox. 



POEIRY OF THE YEAR. 



121 




NOVEMBER— SEA-GULL. 

Storms of autumn sweep the sea, 
Inland, on the blast upwinging. 
Come white-breasted Sea-gulls bringing 
Fresh breaths of the wild and free. 




A STILL DAY IN AUTUMN. 

I LOVE to wander through the woodlands hoary. 
In the soft gloom of an autumnal day, 
When summer gathers up her robes of glory, 
And, like a dream of beauty, glides away. 

How, through each loved, familiar path she lingers, 
Serenely smiling through the golden mist. 

Tinting the wild grape with her dewy fingers. 
Till the cool emerald turns to amethyst ; 

Kindling the faint stars of the hazel, shining 
To light the gloom of autumn's mouldering 
halls; 
With hoary plumes the clematis entwining. 

Where, o'er the rock, her withered garland 
falls. 

Warm lights are on the sleepy uplands waning 
Beneath dark clouds along the horizon rolled. 

Till the slant sunbeams, through their fringes rain- 
ing. 
Bathe all the hills in melancholy gold. 

The moist winds breathe of crisped leaves and 
flowers, 

In the damp hollows of the woodland sown. 
Mingling the freshness of autumnal showers 

With spicy airs from cedarn alleys blown. 

Beside the b»ook and on the umbered meadow, 
Wheie yellow fern-tufts fleck the faded ground. 

With folded lids beneath their palmy shadow. 
The gentian nods, in dreary slumbers bound. 



Upon those soft, fringed lids the bee sits brooding,, 
Like a fond lover loath to say farewell ; 

Or, with shut wings, through silken folds intruding, 
Creeps near her heart his drowsy tale to tell. 

The little birds upon the hill-side lonely 
Flit noiselessly along from spray to spray, 

Silent as a sweet, wandering thought, that only 
Shows its bright wings and softly glides away. 

The scentless flowers, in the warm sunlight dream- 
ing. 
Forget to breathe their fulness of delight ; 
And through the tranced woods soft airs are 
streaming. 
Still as the dew-fall of the summer night. 

So, in my heart, a sweet, unwonted feeling 
Stirs, like the wind in ocean's hollow shell, 

Through all its secret chambers sadly stealing. 
Yet finds no words its mystic charm to tell. 
Sarah H. Whitman. 

VERSES IN PRAISE OF ANGLING. 

QUIVERING fears, heart-tearing cares. 
Anxious sighs, untimely tears, 
Fly, fly to courts. 
Fly to fond worldlings' sports. 
Where strained sardonic smiles are glosing still. 
And grief is forced to laugh against her will. 
Where mirth's but mummery. 
And sorrows only real be. 



i22 



POETRY OF THE YEAR. 



Fly from our country pastimes, fly, 
Sad triiops of human misery; 
Come, serene looks, 
Clear as the crystal brooks, 



Abused mortals ! did you know 

Where joy, heart's ease, and comforts grow, 
You'd scorn proud towers 
And seek them in these bowers. 







Or the pure azured heaven that smiles to : Where winds, sometimes, our woods perhaps may 
see I shake. 

The rich attendance on our poverty; i But blustering care could never tempest make. 

Peace and a secure mind, | Nor murmurs e'er come ni-h us, 

^^ liich all men seek, we only find. Saving of fountains that glide by us. 



POETRY OF THE YEAR. 



123 



Here's no fantastic mask nor dance, 
But of our kids that frisk and prance ; 

Nor wars are seen, 

Unless upon the green 
Two harmless lambs are butting one the other, 
Which done, both bleating run, each to his mother; 

And wounds are never found, 

Save what the ploughshare gives the ground. 

Here are no entrapping baits 
To hasten to too hasty fates ; 

Unless it be 

The fond credulity 
Of silly fish, which, worldling like, still look 
Upon the bait, but never on the hook ; 

Nor envy, 'less among 

The birds, for price of their sueet song. 

Go, let the diving negro seek 

For gems, hid in some forlorn creek : 



We all pearls scorn 

Save what the dewy morn 
Congeals upon each little spire of grass. 
Which careless shepherds beat down as they 
pass ; 

And gold ne'er here appears, 

Save what the yellow Ceres bears. 

Blest silent groves, oh, may you be, 
For ever, mirth's best nursery ! 
May pure contents 
For ever pitch their tents 
Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these 

mountains ; 
And peace still slumber by these purling foun- 
tains. 
Which we may every year 
Meet, when we come a-fishing here. 

Sir Henry Wotton 




DECEMBER— PARTRIDGE. 

The partridge looks round on the wintry world. 
Snow-draped in ermine, with frost impearled ; 
'• I'm warm," says he, ''and dressed for the cold 
As well as the lamb that's snug in the fold." 



AUTUMN— A DIRGE. 



THE warm sun is falling; the bleak wind is 
wailing ; 
The bare boughs are sighing; the pale 
flowers are dying ; 
And the year 
On the earth, her death-bed, in shroud of leaves dead, 
Is lying. 
Come, months, come away, 
From November to May ; 
In your saddest array 
Follow the bier 
Of the dead, cold year, 
And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre. 



The chill rain is falling ; the nipt worm is crawling ; 
The rivers are swelling ; the thunder is knelling 

For the year ; 
The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards 
each gone 

To his dwelling ; 
Come, months, come away ; 
Put on white, black and gray ; 
Let your light sisters play — 
Ye, follow the bier 
Of the dead, cold year. 
And make her grave green with tear on tear. 

Percy B. Shelley. 



124 



POETRY OF THE YEAR. 



THE FIRST SNOWFALL. 

THE snow had begun in the gloamhig, 
And busily all the night 
Had been heaping field and highway 
With a silence deep and white. 

Every pine and fir and hemlock 
Wore ermine too dear for an earl, 

And the poorest twi:^ on the elm-tree 
Was ridged inch deep with pearl. 

From sheds new-roofed with Carrara 
Came chanticleer's muffled crow. 

The stiff rails were softened to swan's-down, 
And still fluttered down the snow. 



I remembered the gradual patience 
That fell from that cloud-like snow, 

Flake by flake, healing and hiding 
The scar of our deep-plunged woe. 

And again to the child I whispered, 

" The snow that husheth all, 
Darling, the merciful Father 

Alone can make it fall !" 

Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her. 
And she, kissing back, could not know 

That my kiss was given to her sister, 
Folded close under deepening snow. 

James Russell Lowell. 




I stood and watched by the window 
The noiseless work of the sky. 

And the sudden flurries of snow-birds. 
Like brown leaves whirling by. 

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn 
Where a little headstone stood ; 

How the flakes were folding it gently. 
As did robins the babes in the wood. 

Up spoke our own little Mabel. 

Saying, '• Father, who makes it snow?" 
And I told of the good All-Father 

Who cares for us here below. 

Ag-iin I looked at the snowfall. 
And thought of the leaden sky 

That arched o'er our first great sorrow, 
When that mound was heaped so high. 



OLD=TIME WINTER. 

WHERE, oh, where, is winter. 
The sort we used to know ? 
The icy blast, 
The skies o'ercast, 
And the drifting, sifting snow? 
Where are the ponds for skating, 
The snow-clad coasting hills; 
The urchin's sled, 
And the usual dread 

Of colds and other ills? 
Where are the jingling sleighbells. 
The girl with the frosted ^o^e, 
The slippery walks 
And the old-fashioned gawks, 

AVith the shoes inside their hose? 
Where are the snowball battles, 
Of the erstwhile festive kid ; 




OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 




EUGENE FIELD. 



POETRY OF THE YEAR. 



125 



The snowy sphere's, 
That skipped one's ears, 

The wind that chased one's lid ? 
Where is the old-style winter, 

The winter of winds that blow ? 
Tell us we pray, 
\yiiere the icicles stay, 

Of the winters we used to know? 



DIRGE FOR THE YEAR. 

ORPHAN hours, the year is dead, 
Come and sigh, come and weep ! 
Merry hours, smile instead. 
For the year is but asleep : 
See, it smiles as it is sleeping. 
Mocking your untimely weeping. 




B' 



BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND. 

I LOW, blow, thou winter wind — 
Thou art not so unkind 
As man's ingratitude; 
Thy tooth is not so keen. 
Because thou art not seen. 

Although thy breath be rude, 
Heigh ho ! sing heigh ho ! unto the green holly • 
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly ; 
Then, heigh ho ! the holly ! 
This life is most jolly ! 

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky — 
Thou dost not bite so nigh 

As benefits forgot ; 
Though thou the waters warp. 
Thy sting is not so sharp 

As friend remembered not. 
Heigh ho ! sing heigh ho ! unto the green holly: 
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly ; 
Then, heigh ho ! the holly ! 
This life is most jolly! 

William Shakespeare. 



As an earthquake rocks a corse 

In its coffin in the clay. 
So white winter, that rough nurse. 

Rocks the dead-cold year to-day ; 
Solemn hours ! wail aloud 
For your mother in her shroud. 

As the wild air stirs and sways 
The tree-swung cradle of a child. 

So the breath of these rude days 

Rocks the year. Be calm and mild, 

Trembling hours ; she will arise 

With new love within her eyes. 

January gray is here. 

Like a sexton by her grave ; 
February bears the bier ; 

March with grief doth howl and rave, 
And April weeps — but, O ye hours ! 
Follow with May's fairest flowers. 

Percy B. Shelley. 



126 



POETRY OF THE YEAR. 



THE LAST SNOW OF WINTER. 

SOFT snow still rests within this wayside cleft, 
Veiling the primrose buds not yet unfurled; 
Last trace of dreary winter, idly left 
On beds of moss, and sere leaves crisply curled ; 
Why does it linger while the violets blow, 
And sweet things grow ? 

A relic of long nights and weary days. 

When all fair things were hidden from my sight; 



It was a time of rapture I Clear and loud 

The village clock tolled six — I wheeled about. 

Proud and exulting, like an untired horse 

That cares not for his home. — All shod with sleel 

We hissed along the polished ice, in games 

Confederate, imitati\ e of the chase 

And woodland pleasures — the resounding horn, 

The pack loud-chiming, and the hunted hare. 

So through the darkness and the cold we flew, 
And not a voice was idle : with the din 




A chill reminder of those mournful ways 

I traversed when the fields were cold and white; 
My life was dim, my hopes lay still and low 
Beneath the snow ! 

Now spring is coming, and my buried love 

Breaks fresh and strong and living through the 
sod; 
The lark sings loudly in the blue above. 

The budding earth must magnify her God; 
Let the old sorrows and old errors go 
With the last snow ! 

Sarah Doudney. 

SKATING. 

AND in the frosty season, when the sun 
Was set, and, visible for many a mile, 
The cottage-windows through the twilight 
blazed, 
I heeded not the summons: happy time 
It was indeed for all of us ; for me 



Smitten, the precipices rang aloud ; 

The leafless trees and every icy crag 

Tinkled like iron ; while the distant hills 

Into the tumult sent an alien sound 

Of melancholy, not unnoticed, while the stars, 

Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the west 

The orange sky of evening died away. 

Not seldom from the uproar I retired 

Into a silent bay, or sportively 

Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng. 

To cut across the reflex of a star ; 

Image, that, flying still before me, gleamed 

Upon the glassy plain : and oftentimes. 

When we had given our bodies to the wind. 

And all the shadowy banks on either side 

Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning 

still 
The rapid line of motion, then at once 
Have I, reclining back upon my heels, 
Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs 




WINTER PASTIME. 



127 



128 



POETRY OF THE YEAR. 




Wheeled by me — even as if the earth had rolled 
With visible motion her diurnal round ! 
Behind me did they stretch in solemn train, 
Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched 
Till all was tranquil as a summer sea. 

William Wordsworth. 

WITHERED FLOWERS. 

DIEU ! ye withered flowerets ! 
Your day of glory's past ; 
But your parting smile was loveliest. 

For we knew it was your last : 
No more the sweet aroma 

Of your golden cups shall rise. 
To scent the morning's stilly breath. 
Or gloaming's zephyr sighs. 

Ye were the sweetest offerings 

Which friendship could bestow — 
A token of devoted love 

In pleasure or in woe ! 
Ye graced the head of infancy. 

By soft affection twined 
Into a fairy coronal 

Its sunny brows to bind. 

Ye decked the coffins of the dead, 

By yearning sorrows strewd 
Along each lifeless lineament, 

In death's cold damps bestowed ; 
Ye were the pleasure of our eyes 

In dingle, wood and word, 
In the parterre's sheltered premises, 

And on the mountain cold. 



But ah ! a dreary blast hath blown 

Athwart you in your bloom, 
And, pale and sickly, now your leaves 

The hues of death assume : 
We mourn your vanished loveliness, 

Ye sweet departed flowers ! 
For ah ! the fate which blighted you 

An emblem is of ours. 

There comes a blast to terminate 

Our evanescent span : 
For trail, as your existence, is 

T he mortal life of man ! 
And is the land we hasten to 

A land of grief and gloom ? , 

No ! there the Lily of the Vale I 

And Rose of Sharon bloom! ' 

And there a stream of ecstasy 

Through groves of glory flows, 
And on its banks the Tree of Life 

In heavenly beauty grows; 
And flowers that never fade away. 

Whose blossoms never close. 
Bloom round the walks where angels stray, 

And saints redeemed repose. 

And though, like you, sweet flowers of earthJ 

We wither and depart, 
And leave behind, to mourn our loss. 

Full many an aching heart ; I 

Yet, when the winter of the grave j 

Is past, we hope to rise, , 

Warmed by the Sun of Righteousness, 

To blossom in the skies. 

John Bethune. 




DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA: 

EMBRACING 

GRAPHIC PEN-PICTURES OF THE WORLD OF WATERS. 

THE LIFE BRIGADE. 

ARK! 'mid the strife of waters 

A shrill despairing cry, 
As of some drowning sailor 

In his last agony ! 
Another ! and now are mingled 

Heart-rending shrieks for aid. 
Lo ! a sinking ship. What ho! arouse, 

Arouse the Life Brigade ! 

They come with hurrying footsteps: 

No need for a second call ; 
They are broad awake and ready, 

And willing one and all. 
Not a hand among them trembles. 

Each tread is firm and free, 
Not one man's s])irit falters 

In the face of the awful sea. 

Yet well may the bravest sailor 

Shrink back apjialled to-night 
From that army of massive breakers 

With their foam-crests gleaming white, 
Those beautiful terrible breakers, 

Waiting to snatch their prey, 
And bury yon hapless vessel 

'Neath a monument of spray ! 




But rugged, and strong, and cheery 

Dainitless and undismayed. 
Are the weather-beaten heroes 

Of the gallant Life Brigade. 
" To the rescue !" shouts their leader. 

Nor pauses for reply — 
A plunge ! — and the great waves bear him 

Away to do or die ! 

The whole night long, unwearied. 

They battle with wind and sea. 
All ignorant and heedless 

Of what their end may be. 
They search the tattered rigging, 

They climb the quivering mast. 
And life after life is rescued 

Till the frail ship sinks at last. 



The thunderous clouds have vanished, 

And rose-fingered morn awakes. 
While over the breast of ocean 

The shimmering sunlight breaks; 
And the Life Brigade have finished 

The work God gave them to do. 
Their names are called "Any missing?" 

Mournful the answer — " Two !" 

Two of the best and bravest 

Have been dragged by the cruel waves 
Down to the depths unmeasured, 

'Mid thousands of sailor graves! 
Two lives are given for many! 

And the tears of sorrow shed. 
Should be tears of jov and glory 

For the grandeur of the dead ! 

Minnie Mackav. 
123 



130 



DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OE THE SEA. 



THE LANDSMAN'S SONQ. 



o 



H! who would be bound to the barren sea, 
If he could dwell on land — 
Where his step is ever both firm and free, 
Where flowers arise, 
Like sweet girls' eyes, 
And rivulets sing 
Like birds in spring ? 



And so — 1 will take my stand 

On land, on land ! 
For ever and ever on solid land ! 

Some swear they could die on the salt, salt sea, 
(But have they been loved on land ?) 

Some rave of the ocean in drunken glee — 
Of the music born 
On a gusty morn. 
When the tempest is waking, 




For me — I will take my stand 

On land, on land ! 
For ever and ever on solid land ! 

Fve sailed on the riotous roaring sea. 
With an undaunted band : 

Yet my village home more pleaseth me. 
With its valley gay 
Where maidens stray, 
And its grassy mead 
Where the white flocks feed ; 



And billows are breaking, 
And lightning flashing, 
And the thick rain dashing. 
And the winds and the thunders 
Shout forth the sea wonders ! 
— Such things may give joy 
To a dreaming boy : 

But for me — I will take my stand 

On land, on land ! 
For ever and ever on solid land. 

Barry Cornwall. 
MY BRIQANTINE. 



JUST in thy mould and beauteous in thy form, 
Gentle in roll and buoyant on the surge. 
Light as the sea-fowl rocking in the storm, 
In breeze and gale thy onward course we 
urge. 

My water-queen ! 
Lady of mine. 
More light and swift than thou none thread the 

sea. 
With surer keel or steadier on its path. 



We brave each waste of ocean -mystery 

And laugh to hear the howling tempest's wrath. 

For we are thine. 

" My brigantine ! 
Trust to the mystic power that points thy way. 
Trust to the eye that pierces from afar ; 
Trust the red meteors that around thee play. 
And, fearless, trust the Sea-Green Lady's Star, 

Thou bark divine !" 

James Fenimore Coope?. 




CORAL TREASURES OF THE SEA. 



131 



132 



DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA. 



I 



IS MY LOVER ON THE SEA ? 

S my lover on the sea, 

Sailing East, or sailing West ? 
Mighty ocean, gentle be, 
Rock him into rest ! 

Let no angry wind arise, 

Nor a wave with whitened crest ; 
All be gentle as his eyes 

When he is caressed ! 



of the deep for a hurricane ! All's well at twelve 
o'clock at night ! Strike eight bells ! All's well 
at one o'clock in the morning ! Strike two bells ! 
How the water tosses from the iron prow of the 
Huron as bhe seems moving irresistibly on ! If a 
fishing smack came in her way she would ride it 
down and not know she touched it. 

But, alas! through the darkness she is aiming 
for Nag's Head ! What is the matter with the 



compasses : 




Bear him (as the breeze above 
Bears the bird unto its nest), 

Here — unto his home of love. 
And there bid him rest ! 

Barry Cornwall. 

WRECK OF THE HURON. 

A FEW days ago there went out from our 
Brooklyn Navy Yard a man-of-war, the 
Huron. She steamed down to Hampton 
Roads, dropped anchor for further orders, and 
then went on southward — one hundred and thirty- 
six souls on board — and the life of the humblest 
boy in sailor's jacket as precious as the life of ihe 
commander. 

There were storms in the air, the jib-stay had 
been carried awav, but what cares such a monan h 



At one o'clock and forty minutes 
there is a liarsh grating on the 
bottom of the ship, and the cry 
goes across the ship, " What's the 
matter?" Then the sea lifts up 
the ship to let her fall on the 
breakers — shock ! shock ! shock ! 
The dreadful command of the 
captain rings across the deck and 
is repeated among the hammocks, 
"All hands save the ship!" 
Then comes the thud of the axe 
in answer to the order to cut 
away the mast. Overboard go 
the guns. They are of no use in 
this battle with the wind and 
wave. 

Heavier and heavier the vessel 
falls till the timbers begin to 
crack. The work of death goes 
on, every surge of the sea carry- 
ing more men from the forecastle, 
and reaching up its briny fingers 
to those hanging in the rigging. 
Numb and frozen, they hold on 
and lash themselves fast, while 
some, daring each other to the 
undertaking, plunge into the 
beating surf and struggle for the 
■^ land. Oh, cruel sea I Pity them, 

as bruised, and mangled, and with 
broken bones, they make desper- 
ate effort for dear life. For thirty 
miles along the beach the dead of the Huron are 
strewn, and throughout the land there is weeping 
and lamentation and great woe. 

A surviving officer of the vessel testifies that 
the conduct of the men was admirable. It is a 
magnificent thing to see a man dying at his post, 
doing his wliole duty. It seems that every ship- 
wreck must give to the world an illustration of 
the doctrine of vicarious sacrifice — men daring 
all things to save their fellows. Who can see 
such things without thinking of the greatest deed 
of these nineteen centuries, the pushing out of 
the Chieftain of the universe to take the human 
race off the wreck of the world ? And this is 
a rescue that will fill heaven with hallelujahs and 
resounding praise, and the jubilant notes of the 
anthem will never cease. 

T. De Witt Talmage. 



DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA. 



133 




THE LIGHTHOUSE 

THE rocky ledge runs far into the sea. 
And on its outer point, some miles a\va\', 
The lighthouse lifts its massive masonry, 
A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day. 

Even at this distance I can see the tides, 

Upheaving, break unheard along its base, 
A speechless wrath, that rises and subsides 

In the white lip and tremor of the face. 



The startled waves leap over it ; the storm 
Smites it with all the scourges of the rain, 

And steadily against itssohd form 

Press the great shoulders of the hurricane. 



And as the evening darkens, lo ! how bright, 
Through the deep purple of the twih'ght air, 
Beams forth the sudden radiance of its 
light 
With strange, unearthly splendor in 
its glare ! 

And the great ships sail outward and 
return. 
Bending and bowing o'er the billowy 
swells, 
And ever joyful, as they see it burn, 
They wave their silent welcomes and 
farewells. 

They come forth from the darkness, and 
their sails 
Gleam for a moment only in the blaze, 
And eager faces, as the light unveils. 
Gaze at the tower, and vanish while 
they gaze. 

The mariner remembers when a child, 
On his first voyage, he saw it fade and 
sink ; 
And when, returning from adventures 
wild, 
He saw it rise again o'er ocean's brink. 

Stead ast, serene, immovable, the same 

Year after year, throu .;h all the silent night 

Burns on for evermore that quenchless flame. 
Shines on that inextinguishable light ! 

It sees the ocean to its bosom clasp 

The rocks and sea-sand with the kiss of peace : 
It sees the wild winds liTt it in their grasp. 

And hold it up, and shake it like a fleece. 



The sea-bird wheeling round it, with the din 
Of wings and winds and solitary cries. 

Blinded and maddened by the light within. 
Dashes himself against the glare, and dies. 



A new Prometheus, chained upon the rock. 
Still grasijing in his hand the fire of Jove, 




It does not hear ihj cry, nor heed the shock, 
But hails the mariner with words of love. 

" Sail on I" it says, "sail on, ye stately ships ! 
And with your floating bridge the ocean 
span ; 
Be inine to guard this light from all eclipse, 
Be yours to bring man nearer unto man !" 
H. W. Longfellow. 



134 



DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA. 



THE MINUTE GUN. 



w 



HEN in the storm on Albion's coast, 
The night-watch guards his wary post, 

From thoughts of danger free. 

He marks some vessel's dusky form, 

And hears, amid the howling storm, 

The minute-gun at sea. 

Swift on the shore a hardy few 
The life-boat man with gallant crew 
And dare the dangerous wave ; 
Through the wild surf they cleave their way. 



Lost in the foam, nor know dismay. 
For they go the crew to save. 

But, O, what rapture fills each breast 

Of the hopeless crew of the ship distressed ! 

Then, landed safe, what joy to tell 

Of all the dangers that befell ! 

Then is heard no more, 

By the watch on shore, 

The minute-gun at sea. 

R. S. Sharpe. 




I LOVED THE OCEAN. 



WH.\T was it that I loved so well about my 
childhood's home? 
It was the wide and wave-lashed shore, 
the black rocks crowned with foam ! 
It was the sea-gull's flapping wing, all trackless in 

its flight. 
Its screaming note that welcomed on the fierce 

and stormv niglit ! 
The wild heath had its flowers and moss, the for- 
est had its trees. 
Which bending to the evening wind, made music 

in the breeze. 
But earth, ha ! ha ! I laugh e'en now, earth had 
no charms for me ; 



No scene half bright enough to win my young 

heart from the sea ! 
No ! 't was the ocean, vast and deep, the fathom- 
less, the free ! 
The mighty rushing waters, that were ever dear 

to me ! 
My earliest ste|:)s would wander from the green and 

fertile land, 
Down where the clear blue ocean rolled to pace 

the rugged strand ; 
Oh ! how I loved the waters, and even longed 

to be 
A bird, a boat, or anything that dwelt upon the 

sea ! Eliza Cook. 



DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA. 



133 



THE WHITE SQUALL. 



ND 




so the hours kept 

tolling ; 
And through the ocean 

rolling 
Went the brave Iberia 

bowling, 

Before the break of 

day — 

When a squall upon a 

sudden, 
Came o'er the waters 

scudding ; 
And the clouds began 

to gather, 
And the sea was lashed 

to lather, 
And the lowering thun- 
der grumbled. 
And the lightning 
jumped and tumbled. 
And the ship, and all 

the ocean. 
Woke up in wild coni- 
^^ ^ motion. 

Then the wind set up a 
howling, 
And the poodle dog a yowling. 
And the cocks began a crowing. 
And the old cow raised a lowing, 
As she heard the tempest blowing ; 
And fowls and geese did cackle. 
And the cordage and the tackle 
Began to shriek and crackle ; 
And the spray dashed o'er the funnels, 
And down the deck in runnels ; 
And the rushing water soaks all. 
From the seamen in the fo'ksal 
To the stokers, whose black faces 
Peer out of their bed-places ; 
And the captain he was bawling, 
And the sailors pulling, hauling. 
And the quarter-deck tarpauling 
Was shivered in the squalling; 
And the passengers awaken. 
Most pitifully shaken ; 
And the steward jumps up, and hastens 
For the necessary basins. 

And when, its force expended, 
The harmless storm was ended, 
And as the sunrise splendid 

Came blushing o'er the sea — 
I thought, as day was breaking, 
My link girls were waking, 
And smiling, and making 
A prayer at home for me. 

WlLLI.\M M.^KEPEACE THACKERAV. 



THE BOATMEN'S SONQ. 

COME, sport with the sea gull -come, ride 
on the billows. 
Come, dance with the mermaids upon the 
wave's crest ; 
The sea is the mother that fondles and pillows 
Our loved little craft on her passionate breast. 

We dip the long oars in the swift-flowing tide. 
We shoot the sharp prow through the white, 
splashing foam, 

Fast away— far away o'er the waters we glide, 
And, jubilant, sing to the winds as we roam. 

We have bronze on our cheeks and we carry the 
traces 
Of storm and of sun as we bend to the oar, 




The tales of the deep von mav read in our faces,^ 
And hear in our ballads ihe hoarse tempest's 
roar. 

Eyes fired with love scan the wide waters o'er, 
Breasts beat with the wavelets that strike our 
light craft ; 
To the watchers who wait on the dim, distant 
shore. 
Our thoughts and heart messages fondly we 

waft. 

Now away, brave and gay, through the mist and 
the spray. 

With cradle like motion 
We toss on the ocean. 
And murmuring waters around the boat play ; 
We are gallant and merry. 
And our dull cares we bury 
Down deep in the caves of the wide-spreading bay. 

Henry Davenport. 



DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA. 




TACKING 5HIP OFF SHORE. 



' H E weather- 
leech of the 
topsail shivers, 
The bowlines 
strain, and the 
lee shrouds 
slacken. 
The braces are taut, 
the lithe boom 
quivers, 
And the waves 
with the coming 
squall-cloud blacken. 

Open one point on the 
weather-ljow, 
Is the light-house tall on 
Fire Island Head? 
There's a shade of doubt 
on the captain's brow, 
And the pilot watches the heaving lead. 

I stand at the wheel, and with eager eye 
To s(.a and to sky and to shore I gaze, 

Till the muttered order of " Full and by ! " 
Is suddenly changed for " Full for stays ! " 

The ship bends lower before the breeze. 
As her broadside fair to the blast she lays; 

And she swifter springs to the rising .seas, 
As the pilot calls, "Stand by for stays! " 

It is silence all, as each in his jjlace, 

With the gathered coil in his hardened hands. 

By tack and bowline, by slicet and brace, 
Waiting the watchword impatient stands. 

And the light on Fire Island Head draws near, 
.\s. trumpet-winged, the pilot's shout 

From his |)Ost in the bowsprit's heel I hear. 
With the welcome call of "Ready! About!" 

Xo time to spare ! It is touch and go ; 

And the captain cries, ' Down, helm ! hard 
down!" 
As my weight on the whirling spokes I throw. 
While heaven grows black with the storm-cloud's 
frown. 

High o'er the knight-heads flies the spray. 
As we meet the shock of the plunging sea; 

And my shoulder stiff to the wheel I lay, 

As I answer, "Ay, ay, sir! Ha-a-rd a-lee! " 

With the swerving leap of a startled steed 
The ship flies fast in the e_\e of the wind. 



The dangerous shoals on the lee recede. 

And the headland white we have left behind. 

The topsails flutter, the jibs collapse. 

And belly and tug at tiie groaning cleats; 

The spanker slats, and the mainsail flaps; 

And thunders the order, "Tacks and sheets! " 

'Mid the rattle of blocks and the tramp of the 
crew. 

Hisses the rain of the rushing squall : 
The sails are aback from clew to clew, 

And now is the moment for, " Mainsail, haul ! " 




And the heavy yards, like a baby's toy. 
By fifty strong arms are swiftly swung: 

She holds her way, and I look with joy 

For the first white spray o'er the bulwarks flung. 

"Let go, and haul ! " 'Tis the last command, 
And the head-sails fill to the blast once more: 

Astern and to leeward lies the land. 

With its breakers white on the shingly shore. 

What matters the reef, or the rain, or the squall? 

I steady the helm for the open sea; 
The first mate clamors, "Belay, there, all! " 

And the captain's breath once more comes free. 

And so off shore let the good ship fly ; 

Little care I how the gusts may blow, 
In my fo'castle bunk, in a jacket dry. 

Eight bells have struck, and my watch is below. 
Walter Mitchell. 



T 



SOLITUDE OF THE SEA 

HERE is a ra])turc on the lonely shore. 
There is society, where none intrudes, 
By the deep sea, and music in its roar: 
I love not man the less, but nature more, 



From these our interviews, in which I steal 
From all I may be, or have been before, 
To mingle with the universe and feel 
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. 

Lord Byron. 




/ ROCK AND SAND BORERS. 

Among the wonders of the sea is a low order of 
animals admirably adapted for boring in the sand and 
in harder substances. Insignificant in appear- 
ance, easily crushed by the foot of a careless passer- 
by, they are yet endowed with remarkable power, 
and are quite as marvelous in their way as '' the 
Leviathan that sporteth himself in the sea." The 
whole tribe of mollusks has been the wonder of super- 
ficial observers and the study of scientists. Particu- 
larly are their shells adorned with some of the finest 
touches of nature. 

137 



138 



DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA. 




THE OCEAN. 

ruins, the rocks, and the 



ALL hail to thi; 
shores ! 
Thou wide-rolling Ocean, all hail ! 
Now brilliant with sunbeams and dimpled with 

oars. 
Now dark with the fresh-blowing gale, 
While soft o'er thy bosom the cloud-shadows sail, 
And the silver-winged sea-fowl on high, 
Like meteors bespangle the sky, 
Or drive in the gulf, or triumphantly ride, 
Like foam on the surges, the swans of the tide 

THE GRAY 



From the tumult and smoke of the city set free. 
With eager and awful delight. 
From the crest of the mountain I gaze upon thee, 
I gaze — and am changed at the sight ; 
For mine eve is illumined, my genius takes flight. 
My soul, like the sun, with a glance 
Embraces the boundless expanse, 
And moves on thy waters, wherever they roll, 
From the day-darting zone to the night-shadowed 
pole. 

James Montgomery. 




fHT7 7y\Tr/^PAi|j 7irff77W RAY, tell me, sailor, 
i i ^jIII^ E^^^T^^iici^ tell me true. 

Is my little lad, my 
Elihu, 
A-sailing with 
your ship ?" 
The sailor's eyes were 
dim with dew — 
Your little lad, your 
Elihu?" 
He said with trembling lip — 
• ■ What little lad ? What ship ?' ' 

" What little lad ! as if there could be 
Another such a one as he ! 

What little lad, do you say ? 
Why, Elihu, that to the sea 
The moment 1 put him off my knee ! 

It was just the other day 

The Gray Swan sailed away." 

" The other day !" the sailor's eyes 
Stood open with a great surprise, — 

" The other day ! the Swan !" 
His heart began in his throat to rise. 
" Ay, ay, sir; here in the cupboard lies 
The jacket he had on." 
" And so your lad is gone !" 

" Gone with the Swan." "And did she stand 

With her anchor clutching hold of the sand, 

For a month, and never stir?" 
" Why to be sure ! I've seen from the land, 
Like a lover kissing his lady's hand. 

The wild sea kissing her, 

A sight to remember, sir." 

" But, my good mother do you know 
All this was twenty }ears ago ? 



SWAN. 

I stood on the Gray Swan's deck, 
And to that lad I saw you throw, 
Taking it off, as it might be, so. 

The kerchief from your neck." 

"Ay, and he'll bring it back !" 

" And did the little lawless Lid 

That has made you sick and made you sad, 
Sail with the Gray Swan's crew?" 
" Lawless ! the man is going mad ! 
The best boy ever mother had — 
Be sure he sailed w iih the crew ! 
What would you lave him do?" 

" And he has never written a line. 

Nor sent you a word, nor made you sign 
To say he was alive ?" 
" Hold ! if 'twas wrong the wrong is mine 
Besides, he may be in the brine. 

And could he write from the grave? 
" Tut, man ; what would you have?" 

" Gone twenty years- a long, long cniise, 
'Twas wicked thus vour love to abuse ; 

But if the lad still live. 
And come back home, think you, you can for- 
give ?" 
" Miserable man ; you're as mad as the sea — 
you rave — 
What have I to forgive ! ' ' 

The sailor twitched his shirt so blue, 
And from within his bosom drew 
The kerchief She was wild. 
" My God ! my Father ! is it true ! 
My little lad, my Elihu ! 
My blessed boy, my child ! 
My dead — my living child !" 

Alice Gary. 



DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA. 



139 



SAILOR'S SONG. 



BLOW high, blow low, let tempests tear 
The mainmast by the board ; 
Mv heart witii thoughts of thee, my dear, 
And love, well-stored, 
Shall brave all danger, scorn all fear, 
The roaring winds the raging sea, 



And this shall be my song : 

Blow high, blow low, let temjiests tear 
The mainmast from the board. 

And on that night when all the crew, 
The memory of their former lives 



i 




In hopes on shore 

To be once more. 

Safe moored with thee ! 

Aloft, while mountains high we go. 

The whistling winds that scud along. 
And the surge roarin;:; from below. 
Shall my signal lie, 
To think on thee, 

THE SEA 

LOOK what immortal floods the sunset pours 
Upon us. — Mark ! iiow still (as though in 
dreams 
Bound) the once wild and terrible ocean seems ; 
How silent are the winds ! Xo billow roars: 
But all is tranquil as Elysian shores ! 
The silver margin which aye runneth round 
The moon-enchanted sea hath here no sound ; 



O'er flowing cups of flip renew. 

And drink their sweethearts and their wives, 
I'll heave a sigh, and think on thee ; 
And, as the ship rolls through the sea, 
The burden of my song shall be — 
Blow high, blow low, let tempests tear 
The mainmast by the board. 

Charles Dibdin, 
IN CALM. 

Even Echo speaks not on these radiant moors ! 
What ! is the giant of the ocean dead, 
Whose strength was all unmatched beneath the sun - 
No ; he reposes ! Now his toils are done. 
More quiet than the babbling brook is he. 
So mightiest powers by deepest calms are fed. 
And asleep, how oft, in things that gentlest be f 

Barry Cornwall. 



140 



DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OE THE SEA. 



THE LOST ATLANTIC. 



T 



IS night on the waters. The darkness liangs 
over the sea like a pall; 
The moon is dissolved in the gloaming - 
the stars have gone out in the sky. 
Hushed is the voice of the mermaid; secure in 
her spar-lighted hall, 



Rest, man ! in thy confident power, enwrapt in 

unbroken repose, 
While ocean is bearing thee forth from thy land 

to a sirangc, distant shore. 
Tranquilly slumber, sweet maid ! nor thine eyelid 

of beauty unclose 




ABANDONING THE SHIP. 



She lists to the voice of the billows, and winds 

that are fitful and high , 
But the gallant ship speeds on her passage, and 

soon in the harbor will glide, 
Unscathed from the fury of ocean, and safe 

from the rage of the blast ; 
On, on, with the pro'^perous breezes, sh'j fearlessly 

walks on the tide. 
With the plash of her paldles time keeping with 

waves that uprear — fall — are ])assed. 

'Tis night on the waters. Now gentle oh babe ! 
be thv slumbers and deep; 
Thy visions contrast witii the heavens that 
darkly arch over thee, child ; 
Nor chill sweeiing I'own from the Northland, nor 
storm shall forliid thee to sleep, 
Nor danger approach thee, though booms the 
loud ocean in majesty wild. 



On the sorrows and joys of a world that shall 
grieve thee and glad thee no more. 

'Tis night on the waters — a night of ill omen, 
disaster and doom — 
For Death is the ghastly commander that now 
on the vessel's deck stands ! 
From the mystic unknown he advances, appareled 
in garbs of the tomb, 
.\nd over a thousand still sleepers he stretches 
his skeleton hands ! 
Hark to the loud detonations of breakers and 
billow.-. ! .... A shock ! 
Ihestrone; and majestical vessel goes down — the 
seas break o'er her now ! 
The proud but ill-fated Atlantic is dashed on the 
perilous rock. 
For Death — the commander— the pilot — his 
station has ta'ei at her prow. 



DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA. 



141 



Up through the night on the waters, and filling 
with horror the air, 
The agonized wails of a thousand, that shrink 
from the sepulchre, rise. 
Up I'rom the waste of wide Waters ascend both a 
curse and a prayer ; 
To each, in his triumph uiisated, grim Death, 
the commander, re]ilies: 
"The cryp:s of the charnel are open. To me — 
the invincible king — 
Relentless — compassionlcss — deathless — to me 
be an offering made ! " 
Up through the night on the waters the souls of 
five hundred take winp; — 
Down, 'mid the seaweed and coral, the clay of 
five hundred is laid. 




'Tis morn on the waters. From ocean is lifted 
the shadowy pall ; 
The ripples disport in ti.e daylight ; the phan- 
toms of midnight h.ive flown. 
The msrmaid is jjlaintiv- Iv chanting, adown in 
lier spar-lighted h ill, 
A r.H[uiem, mournfully tender, for those she 
lauients as her own. 
Over the populous nations, that loved ones and 
lost ones bewail, 
A mantle of sorrow is r^.sting, like night on a 
desolate heath; 
O the day was portentous and sad that so many 
doomed hundreds set sail 
On the strong yet ill-fated Atlantic, whose cap- 
tain and pilot was Death. 

John Talman, Jr. 

TWILIGHT. 



HE twilight is S-id and cloudy ; 

The wind blows wild and tree; 
.\nd like the wings of seabirds 
Flash the white caps of the sea ; 

But in the fisherman's cottage 
There shines a ruddier light. 

-Vnd a little face at the window- 
Peers out into the night ; 

Close, close it is pressed to the window, 
As if those childish eye; 

Were looking into the darkness, 
To see some Ibrm arise. 

And a woman's waving shadow 

Is ]jassing to and fro. 
Now rising to the ceiling. 

Now bowing and bending low. 

And why do the roaring ocean. 

And the night-wind, wild and bleak. 
As they beat at the heart of the mother. 
Drive the color from her cheel:? 

H. W. Longfellow. 
MARY'S DREAM. 

The author is known only for this one beautiful poem, yet this has given him enduring fame. 



What tale do the roaring ocean 

And the night-wind, bleak and wild, 

As tliey beat at the crazy casement, 
Tell to that little child? 



THE moon had climbed the highest hill 
\Vhich rises o'er the source of Dee, 
And from the eastern summit shed 
Her silver light on tower and tree; 
A\'hen Mary laid her down to sleep. 
Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea, 
When, soft and slow, a voice was heard; 
Saying, " Mary, weep no more for me! " 

She from her pillow gently raised 

Her head, to ask who there might be. 
And saw young Sandy shivering stand, 

With visage pale and hollow e'e. 
"O, Mary dear, cold is my clay; 

It lieth beneath a stormy sea. 
Far, far from thee I sleep in death; 

So, Mary, weep no more for me ! 



"Three stormy nights and stormy days 

We tossed upon the raging main; 
And long we strove our bark to save, 

But all our striving was in vain. 
Even then, when horror chilled my blood, 

My heart was filled with love for thee: 
The storm is ])ast, and I at rest; 

So, Mary, weep no more for me! 

"O maiden dear, th\self prepare; 

We .soon shall meet upon that shore. 
Where love is free from doubt and care. 

And thou and I shall part no more ! " 
Loud crowed the cock, the shadow fled. 

No more of Sandy could she see; 
But soft the passing spirit said, 

"Sweet Mary, weep no more for me! " 

John Lowe. 



142 



DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA. 



DRIFTING. 




Y soul to-day 
Is far away, 
Sailing the Vesu- 
vian Bay ; 
My wi nged 

boat, 
A bird afloat, 
Swims round the 
e peaks remote ; 

Round purijle peaks 
It sails and seelcs 
Blue inlets and their crystal 
creeks, 



At piece I lie, 
Blown softly by, 
A cloud upon this liquid sky. 

The day, so mild, 

Is Heaven's own child. 
With earth and ocean reconciled ; 

The airs I feel 

Around me steal 
Are murmuring to the murmuring keel. 

Over the rail 

My hand I trail 
Within the shadow of the sail, 

A joy intense ; 

The cooling sense 
Glides down my drowsy indolence. 

With dreamful eyes 
My spirit lies 
Where summer sings and never dies ; 




Where high rocks throw, 
Tlirough deeps below, 
A duplicated golden glow. 

Far, vague, and dim 
The mountains swim ; 

While on Vesuvius' misty brim, 
With outstretched hands. 
The gray smoke stands, 

O'erlooking the volcanic lands. 

I heed not, if 

My rippling skiff 
Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff: 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Under the walls of Paradise. 

Under the walls 
Where swells and falls 
The bay's deep breast nt intervals. 



O'erveilird with vines. 
She glows and shines 
Among her future oil and wines. 

Her children, hid 

The cliffs amid. 
Are gamboling with the gamboling kid. 

Or down the walls, 

With tipsy calls, 
Laugh on the rocks like waterfr.lls. 

The fisher's child. 

With tresses wild, 
Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled, 

With glowing lips 

Sings as he skips. 
Or gazes at the far-off ships. 

Yon deep bark goes 
Where traffic blows 
From lands of sun to lands of snows ; 



DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA. 



143^ 



This happier one, 
Its course is run 
From lands of snow to lands of sun. 

O happy ship, 

To rise and dip, 
With the blue crystal at your lip ! 

O happy crew, 

My heart with you 
Sails, and sails, and sings anew ! 

No more, no more 

The worldly shore 
Upbraids me with its loud uproar ! 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Under the walls of paradise ! 

Thomas Buchanan Read. 

THE LAUNCHING OF THE SHIP. 

ALL is finished, and at length 
Has come the bridal day 
Of beauty and of strength. 
To-day the vessel shall be launched ! 
With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched. 
And o'er the bay, 
Slowly, in all its splendors dight. 
The great sun rises to behold the sight. 

The ocean old, 

Centuries old, 

Strong as youih, and as uncontrolled, 
Paces restless to and fro. 
Up and down the sands of gold. 
His beating lieart is not at rest ; 
And far and wide, 
• With ceaseless flow, 
His beard of snow 
Heaves with the heaving of his breast. 

He waits impatient for his bride. 

There she stands. 

With her foot upon the sands, 

Decked with flags and streamers gay, 

In honor of her marriage-day ; 

Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending 

Round her like a veil descending, 

Ready to be 

The bride of the gray old sea. 

Then the Master, 

With a gesture of command. 

Waved his hand ; 

And at the word, 

Loud and sudden there was heard. 

All around them and below, 

The sound of hammers, blow on blo>,. 

Knocking away the shores and spurs. 

And see ! she stirs, 

She starts, she moves,— she seems to feel 

The thrill of life along her keel, 

And, spurning with her foot the ground, 

With one exulting, joyous bound. 



She leaps into the ocean's arms. 
And lo ! from the assembled crowd 
There rose a shout, prolonged and loud, 
That to the ocean seemed to say, 
"Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray; 
Take her to thy protecting armr 
With all her youth and all her charms.' ' 

How beautiful she is ! how fair 

She lies within those arms, that press 

Her form with many a soft caress 

Of tenderness and watchful care ! 

Sail forth into the sea, O ship ! 

Through wind and wave, right onward steer \. 

The moistened eye, the trembling lip, 

Are not the signs of doubt or fear. 

Sail forth into the sea of life, 
O gentle, loving, trusting wife ! 
And safe from all adversity, 
Upon the bosom of that sea 
Thy comings and thy goings be ! 
For gentleness, and love, and trust. 
Prevail o'er angry wave and gust; 
And in the wreck of noble lives 
Something immortal still survives ! 

Thou, too, sail on, O ship of State! 
Sail on, O Union, strong and great! 
Humanity, with all its fears. 
With all its hopes of future years, 
Is hanging breathless on thy fate I 
We know whit master laid thy keel. 
What workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,. 
Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, 
What anvils rang, what hammers beat. 
In what a forge, and what a heat. 
Were shap d the anchors of thy hope. 

Fear not each sudden sound and shock ; 

'Tis of the wave and not the rock; 

'Tis but the flapping of the sail, 

And not a rent made by the gale. 

In spite of rock and tempest roar, 

In spite of false lights on the shore. 

Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea. 

Our hearts, our liopes, are all with thee,— 

Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,. 

Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, 

Are all with thee— are all with thee. 

H. W. Longfellow. 

SUBLIMITY OF THE OCEAN. 

WHAT is there more sublime than the track- 
less, desert, all-surrounding, unfathoma- 
ble sea? What is there more peacefully 
sublime than the calm, gently heaving, silent sea ? 
What is there more terribly sublime than the angry, 
dashing, foaming sea? Power — resistless, over- 
whelming power— is its attribute and its e.xpression, 
whether hi t'le careless, conscious grandeur of its 
deep rest, or the wild tumult of its excited wrath. 



144 



DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA. 



MARINER'S HYMN. 



LAUNCH thy bark, marinf- ! 
Christian, God speed thee ! 
Let loose the rudder-bands — 
Good angels-lead thee ! 
Set thy sails warily, 



What of the night, watchman? 

What of the night?" 
■ Cloudy — all quiet — 

No land yet— all's right." 
Be wakeful, be vigilant — 




THE RESCUE. 



Tempests will come ; 
Steer thy course steadily ; 
Christian, steer home! 

Look to the weather-bow. 

Breakers are round thee ; 
Let fall the plummet now. 

Shallows may ground thee. 
Reef in the foresail there ; 

Holii the helm fast ! 
So — let the vessel wear — 

There swejjt the blast. 



Danger may be 
At an hour when all seemeth 
Securest to thee. 

How ! gains the leak so fast? 

Clean out the hold^ 
Hoist up thy merchandise, 

Heave out the gold ; 
Tliere — let the ingots go — 

Now the ship rights ; 
Hurrah ! the harbor's near — 

Lo ! the red lights ! 



DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA. 



145 



Slacken not sail yet 

At inlet or inland ; 
Straight for the beacon steer, 

Straight for the high land. 



Crowd all thy canvas on, 

Cut through the foam — 
Christian ! cast anchor now — 

Heaven is thy home ! 

Mrs. Robert Southey. 



THE RETURN OF THE ADMIRAL. 








Oh ! would I were our Admiral. 

To order, with a word — 
To lose a dozen drops of blood, 

And straight rise up a lord ! 
I'd sliout e'en to you shark, there, 
■ Who follows in our lee, 
"Some day I'll make thee carry me, 

Like lightning through the sea." 

The Admiral grew paler. 

And paler as we flew : 
Still talked he to his officers, 

And smiled upon his crew ; 
And he looked up at the heavens. 

And looked do«n on the sea, 
And at last he spied the creature, 

That kept following in our lee. 
He shook — 'twas but an instant — 

For speedily the pride 
Ran crimson to his heart. 

Till all chances he defied : 

It threw boldness on his forehead ; 

Gave firmness to his breath ; 
And he stood like snme grim warrior 

New risen up from death. 
10 



OTH gallantly, and merrily, 

We ride along the sea ! 
The morning is all sunshine, 

The wind is blowing free : 
The billows are all sparkling, 

And bounding in the light, 
Like creatures in whose sunny veins 

The blood is running bright. 
All nature knows our triumph : 

Strange birds about us sweep ; 
Strange things come up to look at us, 

The masters of the deep. 
In our wake, like any servant, 

Follows even the bold shark — 
Oh. ]>rou(.l must be our Admiral 

Of such a bonny barque I 

Proud, ])rouJ, must be our Admiral 

(Though he is pale to-day). 
Of twice five hundred iron men, 

Who all his nod obey ; 
Who've fought for him, and conquered — 

Who've won, with sweat and gore, 
N'obilify ! which he shall have 

Whene'er he touch the she re. 

That night, a horrid whisper 

Fell on us where we lay ; 
And we knew our old fine Admiral 

Was changing into clay ; 
And we heard the wash of waters. 

Though nothing could we see, 
And a whistle and a plunge 

Among the billows on our lee ! 
Till dawn we watched the body 

In its dead and ghastly sleep. 
And next evening at sunset. 

It was slung into the deep! 
And never, from that moment — 

Save one shudder through the sea, 
Saw we (or heard) the shark 

That had followed in cur lee ! 

Barry Cornwall. 



TROUBLED SEA. 

lue is like a troubled sea, 



LIFE'S 

THIS - 
Where, helm a-wiather or a-lee. 
The ship will neither stay nor wear. 
But drives, of every rock in fi ar. 

Still blows in vain the hurricane, 
While love is at the hebn. 



14G 



DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA. 



THE SAILOR'S JOURNAL. 



T 



WAS post meridian, half-past four, 
By signal I from Nancy parted ; 
At six she lingered on the shore, 
With uplift hands and broken-hearted. 



I little to their mirth inclined, 

While tender thoughts rushed on my fancy, 
And my warm sighs increased the wind, 

Looked on the moon, and thought of Nancy ! 




At seven, while taughtening the forestay, 
I saw her faint, or else 'twas fancy; 

At eight we all got under weigh. 
And bade a long adieu to Nancy ! 

Night came, and now eight bells had rung. 
While careless sailors, ever cheery, 

On the mid watch so jovial sung. 
With tempers labor cannot weary. 



And now arrived that jovial night 

When every true-bred tar carouses; 
When o'er the grog, all hands delight 
To toast their sweethearts and their 
spouses. 
Round went the can, the jest, the glee. 
While tender wishes filled each fancy ; 

And when, in turn, it came to me, 
I heaved a sigh, and toasted Nancy ! 

Next morn a storm came on at four. 

At six the elements in motion 
Plunged me and three poor sailors more 

Headlong within the foaming ocean. 
Poor wretches ! they soon found their graves ; 

For me — it may be only fancy — 
But love seemed to forbid the waves 

To snatch me from the arms of Nancy ! 



DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA. 



147 



Scarce the foul hurricane was cleared, 

Scarce winds and waves had ceased to rattle, 
When a bold enemy appeared, 

And, dauntless, we prepared for battle. 
And now, while some loved Iriend or wife 

Like lightning; rushed on every fancy, 
To Providence I trusted life, 

Put up a prayer and thought of Nancy ! 



At last — 'twas in the month of May — 

The crew, it being lovely weather, 
At three a. m. discovered day. 

And England's chalky cliffs together. 
At seven up Channel now we bore. 

While hopes and fears rushed on my fancy ; 
At twelve I gaily jumped ashore, 

And to my throbbing heart pressed Nancy I 
Charles Dibdin. 







•^, 





--^^= 



_ .gXOJIG-er THE ^BA. 



I NEVER knew how dear thou wert, 
Till I was on the silent sea ; 
And then my lone and musmg heart 
Sent back its pa'-sionate thoughts to thee 
When the wind slept on ocean's breast, 

And the moon smiled above the deep, 
I longed thus o'er thy spirit's rest 
A vigil like yon moon to keep. 

When the gales rose, and, tempest-tossed. 
Our .struggling ship was sore beset. 

Our topsails rent, our bearing lost, 
And fear in every spirit met — 



Oh ! then, amid tlie midnight storm, 
Peace on my soul thy memory shed : 

The floating image of thy form 

Made strong my heart amid its dread. 



OF all objects winch 1 have ever seen, there 
is none which affects my imagination so 
much as the sea, or ocean. I cannot see 
the heavings of this prodigious bulk of waters, even 
m a calm, without a very pleasing astonishment ; 



Yes ! on the dark and troubled sea, 

I strove my spirit's depths to know. 
And found its deep, deep love for thee. 

Fathomless as the gulfs below. 
The waters bore me on my way — 

Yet, oh ! more swift than rushing streams, 
To thee flew back, from day to day. 

My clinging love — my burning dreams. 
Catharine Warfield. 
OCEAN. 

but when it \i worked up in a tempest, so tliat the 
horizon on every side is nothing but foaming bil- 
lows and floating mountains, it is impossible to 
describe the agreeable horror that rises fom such 
a prospect. Joseph Addison. 



148 



DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA. 



THE SOUND OF THE SEA. 



T 



HOU art sojnding on, thou mighty sea ! 

For ever and the same ; 
The ancient rocks yet ring to thee — 

Those thunders nought can tame. 



Thy billowy anthem, ne'er to sleep 
Until the close of time. 

It fills the noontide's calm profound 
The sunset's heaven of gold ; 




Oil ! many a glorious vo'C" is gnie 
From the rich bowers of earth. 

And hushed is manv a lovely one 
Of mournfuln'^ss or mirth. 

But thou art swelling on, thou deep ! 
Through many an oHen cli'^ie. 



And the still midnight hears the sound, 
Even as first it rolled. 

Let there be silence, deep and strange. 
Where srentred cities rose ! 

Thou speakest of Ou'^ ivho doth rot change- 
So may our hearts repo-e. 

Felic lA D. Hemans. 



DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA. 



149 




THE MERMAID. 

HO would be 
A mermaid fair, 
Singing alone, 
Combing her hair 
Under the sea. 
In a golden curl 
With a comb of pearl, 
On a throne? 

I would be a mermaid fair ; 

I would sing to myself the whole of the day ; 
With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair, 

And ttdl as 1 tomlied I would sing and sax-, 
"Who is it loves me? who loves not me?" 
I would comb my hair till my ringlets would fall, 
Low adown, low adown. 



From under my starry sea-bud crown 

Low adown and around. 
And I should look like a fountain of gold 
Springing alone 
With a shrill inner sound. 

Over the throne 
In the midst of the hall ; 
And all the mermen under the sea 
Would feel their immortality 
Die in their hearts for the love of me. 

But at night I would wander away, away, 

I would fling on each side my low-flowing 
locks, 

And lightly vault from the throne and play 
With the mermen in and out of the rocks ; 

We would run to and fro, and hide and seek. 
On the broad sea-wolds in the crimson shells, - 
Whose silvery spikes are nighest the sea. 

But if any came near I would call, and shriek, 



And adown the steep like a wave I would leap 
From the diamond-ledges that jut from the 
dells; 
For I would not be kissed by all who would list, 
Of the bold merry mermen under the sea ; 
They would sue me, and woo me, and flatter me, 
In ;lie purple twilights under the sea ; 
But the king of them all would carry me, 
^V■oo me, and win me, and marry me. 
In the branching jaspers under the sea; 
Then all the dry pied things that be 
In the hueless mosses under the sea 
Would curl round my silver feet silently. 
All looking up for the love of me. 
And if I should carol aloud, from aloft 
All things that are forked, and horned, and soft. 
Would lean out from the hollow sphere of the 
-""• sea. 
All looking down for the love of me. 

.\lfred Tennyson. 



GONE LIKE A DREAM. 



SUDDENLY, out in the lilack night before us, 
and not two hundred yards away, we heard, 
at a moment when the wind was silent, the 
clear note of a human voire. Instantly the wind 
swept howling down upon the Head, and the Cove 
bellowed, and churned, and danced with a new 
fury. But we had heard the sound, and we knew, 
with agony, that this was the doomed ship now 
close on ruin, and that what we had heard was the 
voice of her master issuing his last command. 

Crouching together on the edge, we waited, 
straining every sense, for the inevitable end. It 
was long, however, and to us it seemed like ages, 
ere the vessel suddenh- a|)peared for one brief in- 
stant, relieved against a tower of glimmering foam. 
I still see her reefed mainsail flapping loose, as the 
boom fell heavily across the deck ; I still see the 



black outline of the hull, and still think I can dis- 
tinguish the figure of a man stretched upon the 
tiller. 

Yet the w hole siL;ht we had of her passed swifter 
than lightning; the very wave that disclosed her 
fell burying her forever; the mingled cry of many 
voices at the point of death rose and was quenched 
in the roaring of the ocean. And with that the 
tragedy was at an end. The strong ship, with all 
her gear, and the lamp perhaps still burning in her 
cabin, the lives of so many men, precious surely to 
others, dear, at least, as heaven to themselves, had 
all, in that one moment, gone down into the surg- 
ing waters They were gone like a dream. And 
the wind still ran and shouted, and the senseless 
waters in the Cove still leaped and tumbled ari 
before. Robert Louis Stevenson. 



150 



DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA. 



THE SHIPWRECK. 



T 



WAS twilight, and the sunless day went down 
Over the waste of waters, like a veil. 
Which, if witiidrawn, would but disclose 
the frown 



That still could keep afloat the struggling tars, 
For yet they strove, altliough of no great use: 

There was no light in heaven but a ^^^f! stars. 
The boats put off o'ercrowded with their crews; 




Of one whose hate is masked but to assail. 
Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown, 

And grimly darkled over the faces pale. 
And the dim desolate deep; twelve days had fear 
Been their familiar, and now death was here. 

At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hencoops, spars. 
And all things for a chance, had been cast loose, 



She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port. 

And, going down head foremost — sunk, in short. 

Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell — 
Then shrieked the timid, and stood still the 
brave, 

Then some leaped overboard with dreadful yell, 
As eager to anticipate their grave ; 



DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA. 



151 



And the sea yawned round her like a hell, 

And down she sucked with her the whirling wave, 
Like one who grapples with his enemy. 
And strives to strangle him before he die. 

And first one universal shriek there rushed, 
Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash 

Of echoing thunder; and then all was hushed, 
Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash 

Of billows; but at intervals there gushed 
Accompanied with a convulsive splash, 

A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry 

Of some strong swimmer in his agony. 

There were two fathers in this ghastly crew, 

And with them their two sons, of whom the one 

Was more robust and hardy to the view. 
But he died early ; and when he was gone. 

His nearest messmate told his sire, who threw 
One glance at him, and said, " Heaven's will be 
done ; 

I can do nothing," and he saw him thrown 

Into the deep without a tear or groan. 

The other father Jiad a weaklier child, 
Of a soft cheek, and aspect delicate; 

But the boy bore up long, and with a mild 
And patient spirit held aloof his fate; 

Little he said, and now and then he smiled. 
As if to win a part from off the weight 

He saw increasing on his father's heart, 

With the deep deadly thought, that they must part. 

And o'er him bent his sire, and never raised 

His eyes from off his face, but wiped the foam 
From his pale lips, and ever on him gazed ; 
And when the wished-for shower at length was 
come, 

THE SECRET 

AH ! what pleasant visions haunt me 
As I gaze upon the sea ! 
All the old romantic legends, 
All my dreams come back to me. 

Sails of silk and ropes of sendal. 

Such as gleam in ancient lore; 
And the singing of the sailors, 

And the answer from the shore ] 

Most of all, the Spanish ballad 

Haunts me oft, and tarries long, 
Of the noble Count Arnaldos 

And the sailor's mystic song. 

Like the long waves on a sea-beach, 

Where the sand as silver shines, 
With a soft, monotonous cadence, 

Flow its unrhymed lyric lines; 

Telling how the Count Arnaldos, 

With his hawk upon his hand, 
Saw a fair and stately galley. 

Steering onward to the land ; — 



And the boy's eyes, which the dull film half 
glazed. 
Brightened, and for a moment seemed to roam. 
He squeezed from out a rag some drops of rain 
Into his dying child's mouth — but in vain. 

The boy expired — the father held the clay. 
And looked upon it long ; and when at last 

Death left no doubt, and the dead burden lay 
Stiff on his heart, and p\ilse and hope were past; 

He watched it wistfully, until away 

'Twas borne by the rude wave wherein 'twas 
cast ; 

Then he himself sunk down, all dumb and shiver- 
ing, 

And gave no sign of life, save his limbs quivering. 

As morning broke, the light wind died away; 

When he who had the watcli sung out and swore, 
If 'twas not land that rose with the sun's ray, 

He wished that land he never might see more: 
And the rest rubbed their eyes, and saw a bay. 

Or thought they saw, and shaped their course for 
shore ; 
For shore it was, and gradually grew 
Distinct, and high, and palpable to view. 

And then of these some part burst into tears, 

And other, looking with a stu|)id stare, 
Could not yet separate their hopes from fears, 
And seemed as if they had no further care. 
While a few prayed — (the first time for some 
years) — 
And at the bottom of the boat three were 
Asleep : they shook them by the hand and head. 
And tried to waken them, but found them dead. 

Lord Byron. 
OF THE SEA. 

How he heard the ancient helmsman 

Chant a song so wild and clear. 
That the sailing sea-bird slowly 

Poised upon the mast to hear, 

Till his soul was full of longing. 

And he cried, with impulse strong — 

" Helmsman ! for the love of heaven, 
Teach me, too, that wondrous song! " 

" Wouldst thou," — so the helmsman answered, 

"Learn the secret of the sea? 
Only those who brave its dangers 

Comprehend its mystery ! " 

In each sail that skims the horizon. 
In each landward-blowing breeze, 

I behold that stately galley. 
Hear those mournful melodies; 

Till mv soul is full of longing 

For the secret of the sea. 
And the heart of the great ocean 

Sends a thrilling pulse 'hrongh me. 

H. W. Longfellow. 



152 



DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA. 



DRIFTING OUT TO SEA. 



TWO little ones grown lired of play. 
Roamed by the sea one summer day, 
\vatLhing the great waves come and go, 
Prattling— as children will, you know — 
Of dolls and marbles, kites and strings, 
Sometimes hint.ng at graver things. 

At last they spied within their reach, 
An old boat cast upon the beach. 
Helter-skelter with merry din. 



And now across the sunny sKy 
A bl-ick tlimJ sCretcne-1 far away, 
And s.uits the golden gates i,f day. 

A storm comes on wiih flush and roar. 
While all ihe sky is shrouded oVr; 
The great waves rolling Irom the West, 
Bring night and darkness on their breast, 
Still floats the boat through driving storm. 
Protected by God's powerful arm. 




Over its sides they clamber in — 
Ben, with his tangled, nut-brown hair, 
Bess, with her sweet face flushed and fair. 

Rolling in from the briny deep. 
Nearer, nearer, the great wa\es creep ; 
Higher, higher, upon the sar.ds, 
Reaching out with their giant hands; 
Grasping the boat in boisterous glee, 
Tossing it up and out to sea. 

The sun went down 'mid clouds of gold ; 
Night came, wi'h footsteps damp and cold ; 
Day dawned ; the hours crept slowly by ; 



The home-bound vessel, "Seabird," lies 
In ready trim, 'twixt sea and skies. 
Her captain paces restless now, 
A troubled look upon his brow : 
While all his nerves with terror thrill — 
The shadow of some coming ill. 

The mate comes up to where he stands. 
And grasps his arm with eager hands ; 
"A boat has just swept past," says he,. 
" Bearing two children out to sea — 
'Tis dangerous now to put about, 
Yet they cannot be saved without." 



DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA. 



153 



" Naught but their safety will suffice — 

They must be saved !" the captain cries. 

" By every thought that's jur" and right, 

By lips I hoped to kiss to-night, 

I'll peril vessel, life and men. 

And God will not forsake me then." 



With anxious faces, one and all, 

Each man responded to the call ; 

And when at last, through driving storm, 

They lifted up each little form. 

The captain started with a groan : 

" My God !" he cried, " they are my own." 



THE VOYAGE. 



WE left behind the painted buoy 
That tosses at the harbor-mouth : 
And madly danced our hearts with joy, 
As fast we fleeted to the South : 
How fresh was every sight and sound 

On open main or winding shore ! 

We knew the merry world was round, 

And we might sail forevermore. 

Warm broke the breeze against the brow. 

Dry sang the tackle, tang the sail : 
The Lady's-head upon the prow 

Caught the shrill salt, and sheered the gale. 
The broad seas swelled to meet the keel. 

And swept behind: so quick the run, 
We felt the good ship shake and reel, 

We seemed to sail into the sun ! 

By peaks that flamed, or, all in shade. 

Gloomed the low coast and quivering brine 
With ashy rains, that spreading made 

Fantastic ])lume or sable pine ; 
By sands and steaming flats, and floods 

Of mighty mouth, we scudded fast, 
And hills and scarlet-mingled woods 

Glowed for a moment as we passed. 

For one fair Vision ever fled 

Down the waste waters day and night. 
And still we followed where she led 

In hope to gain upon her fligiit. 
Her face was evermore unseen, 

And iixed upon the far sea-line ; 
But eacli man murmured, "O my Queen, 

I follow till I make thee mine." 



And now we lost her, now she gleamed 

Like fancy made of golden air, 
Now nearer to the prow she seemed 

Like virtue firm, like knowledge fair, 
Now high on waves that idly burst 

Like heavenly hope she crowned the sea. 
And now, the bloodless point reversed. 

She bore the blade of liberty. 

And only one among us — him 

We pleased not — he was seldom pleased : 
He saw not far : his eyes were dim : 

But ours he swore were all diseased. 
"A ship of fools," he shrieked in spite, 

" A ship of fools," he sneered and wept. 
And overboard one stormy night 

He cast his body, and on we swept. 

And never sail of ours was furled 

Nor anchor dropt at eve or morn ; 
We loved the p lories of the world, 

But laws of nature were our ^corn ; 
For blasts would rise and rave and ctase, 

But whence were those that drove the sail 
Across the whirlwind's heart of peace, 

And to and through the counter-gale ? 

Again to colder climes we came. 

For still we followed where she led : 
Now mate is blind and captain lame, 

And half the crew are sick or dead. 
But blind or lame or sick or sound 

We follow that which flies before : 
We know the merry world is round, 

And we may sail for evermore. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



BY THE SEA. 



O GOLDEN glory on sea and land, 
O crimson twilight and azure sky. 
While, far out, beyond the shining sand. 
The sea-birds shoreward hurrying fly ; 
They dipped their wings in the northern sea. 
Till, tired at last, thev are wandering back. 
To build their nests in the dear old cliff. 

And fly once more o'er the homeward track. 

I catch the gleam of their flashing wings, 
I hear the greeting from hearts i ontent ; 

Ah, that mv sons; were as free from pain, 
And my life as free from days ill-spent. 



The sweetest songs are the songs of home. 
When voices we love take up the strain ; 

If a chord be lost, the dearest song 
Is never the same to us again. 

Then veil your glory, O crimson sky, 

A day is dead, and a great white stone 
I roll on its grave, lest its restless ghost 

Might vex my soul with its ceaseless moa" 
I have buried deep the " might have been," 

The restless longing for what may be, 
I have said a prayer and shed my tears. 

And left the grave by the tossing sr-a. 



154 



DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA. 



THE SEA=FAIRiES. 



SLOW sailed the weary mariners and saw, 
Betwixt tlie green brink and the running 
foam, 
Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms prest 
To little harps of gold ; and while they mused. 
Whispering to each other half in fear, 
Shrill music reached them on the middle sea. 

Whither away, whither away, whither away? fly 
no more. 



Mariner, mariner, furl your sails, 

For here are the blissful downs and dales, 

And merrily, merrily carol the gales. 

And the spangle dances in bight and bay 

And tlie rainbow forms and flies on the land 

Over the islands free ; 

And the rainbow lives in the curve of the sand : 

Hither, come hither and see ; 

And the rainbow hangs on the poising wave. 

And sweet is the color of cove and cave, 




Whither away from the high green field, and the 

happy blossoming shore ? 
Day and night to the billow the fountain calls; 
Down shower the gamboling waterfalls 
From wandering over the lea : 
Out of the live-gretn heart of the dells 
They freshen the silvery-crimson shells. 
And thick with white bells the clover-hill swells 
High over the full-toned sea : 
O hither, come hither and furl your sails, 
Come hither to me and to me : 
Hither, come hither and frolic and play ; 
Here it is only the mew that wails ; 
We will sing to you all the day : 



And sweet shall your welcome be : 
O hither, come hither, and be our lords 
For merry brides are we : 

We will kiss sweet kisses, and speak sweet words : 
O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten 
With pleasure and love and jubilee : 
O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten 
When the sharp clear twang of the golden chords 
Runs up the ridged sea. 
Who can light on as happy a shore 
All the world o'er, all the world o'er? 
Whither away ? listen and stay : mariner, mariner, 
fly no more. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA. 



155 



AN OLD=FASHIONED SEA=FIGHT. 

WOULD you hear of an old-fashioned sea- 
fight? 
Would you learn who won by the light 
of the moon and stars? 
List to the story as my grandmother's father, the 
sailor, told it to me. 

Our foe was no skulk in his ship, I tell you (said he) ; 
His was the surly English pluck, and there is no 

tougher or truer, and never was, and never 

will be ; 
Along the lowered eve he came, horribly raking us. 

We closed with him, the yards entangled, the can- 
non touched ; 
My captain lashed fast with his own hands. 

We had received some eighteen-pound shots under 
the water ; 

On our lower-gun deck two large pieces had burst 
at the first fire, killing all around, and blow- 
ing up overhead. 

Fighting at sundown, fighting at dark ; 

Ten o'clock at night, the full moon well up, our 
leaks on the gain, and five feet of water re- 
ported ; 

The master-at-arms loosing the prisoners confined 
in the after-hold, to give them a chance for 
themselves. 

The transit to and from the magazine is now stopt 

by the sentinels. 
They see so many strange faces, they do not know 

whom to trust. 

Our frigate takes fire ; 

The other asks if we demand quarter, 

If our colors are struck, and the fighting is done. 

Now I laugh content, for I hear the voice of mv 

little captain : 
"We have not struck," he composedly cries, "we 

have just begun our part of the fighting." 

Only three guns are in use; 

One is directed by the captain himself against the 

enemy's main-mast ; 
Two, well served with grape and canister, silence 

his musketry and clear his decks 

The tops alone second the fire of this little battery, 

especially the main-top ; 
They hold out bravelyduringthewholeof the action. 

Not a moment's cease ; 

The leaks gain fast on the pumps, the fire eats 
toward the powder-magazine. 

One of the pumps has been shot away, it is gener- 
ally thought we are sinking. 

Serene stands the little captain ; 

He is not hurried, his voice is neither high nor low ; 

His eyes give more light to us than our battle- 
lanterns. 



Toward twelve at n ght, there in the beams of the 
moon, they surrender to us. 

Stretched and still lies the midnight ; 

Two great hills motionless on the breast of the 

darkness ; 
Our vessel riddled and slowly sinking — prepara- 
tions to pass to the one we have conquered ; 
The captain on the quarter-deck coldly giving his 

oraers through a countenance white as a sheet ; 
Near b\', the corpse of the child that served in the 

cabin ; 
The dead face of an old salt with long white hair 

and carefully curkd whiskers ; 
The flames, spite of all that can be done, flickering 

aloft and below ; 
The husky voices of the two or three officers yet 

fit for duty ; 
Formless stacks of bodies, and bodies by them- 
selves, dabs of flesh upon the masts and spars, 
Cut of cordage, dangle of rigging, slight shock of 

the soothe of waves, 
Black and impassive guns, litter of powder-parcels, 

strong scent. 
Delicate sniffs of sea-breeze, smells of sedgy grass, 

and charge to survivors. 
The hiss of the surgeon's knife, the gnawing teeth 

of his saw. 
Wheeze, chuck, swash of falling blood, short wild 

scream, and long, dull, tapering groan ; 
These so — these irretrievable. 

Walt Whitman. 

THE SAILOR-BOY. 

HE rose at dawn and fired with hope, 
Shot o'er the seething harbor-bar. 
And reached the ship and caught the rope, 
And whistled to the morning star. 

And while he whistled long and loud 
He heard a fierce mermaiden cry, 
" O boy, though thou art young and proud, 
I see the pl.ice where thou wilt lie. 

" The sands and yeasty surges mix 
In caves about the dreary bay, 
And on thy ribs the limpet sticks. 

And in thy heart the scrawl shall play." 

" Fool," he answered, " death is sure 

To those that stay and those that roam, 
But I will nevermore endure 

To sit with empty hands at home. 

" Mv mother clings about my neck. 

My sisters crying, ' Stay, for shame;' 
My father raves of death and wreck. 

They are all to blame, they are all to blame. 

" God help me I save I take my part 
Of danger on the roaring sea, 
A devil rises in my heart. 

Far worse than any death to me." 

Alfred Tennyson. 



15t> 



DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA. 



THE GALLANT SAIL-BOAT. 

FROM "TWIN SOULS: A PSYCHIC KOMANCE." 

HIGH noon had dried the morning dew, 
Old ^olus his warm winds blew 
The wavelets washed the gleaming strand 
And flun^r their foam upon tne sand, 
The bathers shouted in their glee, 
As, splashing in the genial sea, 
They dipped beneath the waves and then, 
With each n.nv breaker, plunged a;jain. 
The yo'rig, the old looked on and laughed, 
With freshened < heeks tlie breeze they quaffed, 
Bright children frolicked on the beach, 
And accents of th^ir prattling speech 
Joined with the surf-song, lond and clear, 
In music dulcet to the car. 

The fashion of the town was th' re 
To Ijreatlie the cool and bracing air: 
The men of mind, the men of wealtii, 
The men who, in pursuit of health. 
Take pills and potions for their ills — 
Dull headaches, sideaches, sweats and chills — 
And, skipping off from work and care, 
Take once a year a breath of air. 

And women, pale and melancholy, 
B;irned out by fashion's winter folly, 
Like eastern queens were decked and dressed. 
Just to lie by and take a rest. 
These drooping willows, day by day. 
In stupid languor seemed to say, 
" Life somewhere on this dismal sphere 
May be worth living, but not here." 

Not such the sprightly, merry party, 
Young maidens bright and fellows hearty. 
Who stood with Conrad on tiie shore, 
Where break the waters evermore. 
Among the group that clustered there. 
Could there be found a mated pair. 
Who, come what might of wind and weather, 
Would sail life's rumpled sea together? 

The boat, impatient of delay. 
With spreading, white wings flew away, 
Pushed its bold venture more and more. 
Left far behind the fading shore, 
And glided on, swan-like and free, 
A thing of life, sylph of the sea. 
The speed grew swift, each eager sail 
Swelled as it caught the gentle gale, 



And so, with canvas all unfurled, 
Around the prow the waters curled, 
And wreaths of spray, formed one by one. 
Made rainbows in the shining sun. 

The lively breeze then stiffer grew, 
The sail-boat leaped and darted tlirough 
Each billow as it struck her breast. 
Or, mounting upward, skimmed the crest. 
Plunged down into the hollow graves, 
Made liy the fast advancing waves, 
'I'hen rose again with graceful bound, 
Wet with the white-caps splashing round. 
And in her Irolicsome advance, 
Moved like a maiden in the dance 
Careening low upon hei side. 
No bird that cuts the air coild glide 
More deftly than she gail\ flew. 
Light-hearted, o'er the waters blue. 

.And just as gay were those on board, 
Their youthful spirits in accord. 
As well-tuned strings wake with a tlirill, 
To iche<.l by the harpist's facile tkill, 
So these yonng hearts were in attune. 
And carolled like the birds of June. 
'I'he pleasure-seekers, side by side. 
Rode with the wind, rode with the tide, 
While sparkling jest and bliihesome song, 
And bursts of laughter loud and long. 
Spontaneous mirth and shouts of glte, 
Went floating o er the ruffled sea. 

Henry Davenfort. 

BEAUTY OF SEA-WAVES. 

AL.ADY, on seeing the sea at Lrighton for 
the first time, exclaimed, "What a beau- 
tiful field! " She had never seen such a 
beautiful green, moving, sparkling, grassy prairie. 
Mr. Leigh Hunt lavished a page of admiration 
upon a line of Ariosto's describing the waves as 

" Neptune's white herds lowing o'er the deep." 

Anacreon e.xclaims, in language appropriate to 
calm seas and smooth sand-beaches, "How the 
waves of the sea kiss the shore ! " Saint-Lambert 
has four lines descriptive of the waves of a stormy 
sea dashing upon the beach, which have been 
much admired by writers upon imitative harmony. 
"Neptune has raised up his turbulent plains, the 
sea falls and leaps upon the tremblimg shores. 
She remounts, groans, and with redoubled blows 
makes the abyss and the shaken mountains resound." 



ALBUM OF LOVE: 

CONTAINING 

GLOWING TRIBUTES TO THE MASTER PASSION. 



T 



THE CROWNING 

MANY live and die 
knowing nothing of 
love except through 
their intellect. Their 
ideas on the subject 
are fanciful, because 
it has never been re- 
vealed by conscious- 
ness. Yet it were to 
question the benig- 
nity of God to be- 
ll jve that an element 
of our being so oper- 
ative and subtle, and 
one that abounds 
chiefly in the good 
and the gifted, is of 
light im])ort or not 
susce])til)le of being 
explained by reason, 
justified by con- 
science, and hal- 
lowed by religion, 
and thus made to 
bear a harvest not 
only of delight, but 
of virtue. 

Love, Petrarch 
maintains, is the 
crowning grace of humanity, the holiest right of 
the soul, the golden link which binds us to duty 
and trutli, the redeeming principle that chieflv 
reconciles the heart to life, and is prophetic of 
eternal good. It is a blessing of a glo'ious ex- 
perience, according to the soul in which it is 
engendered. 

The blessedness of true love springs from the 
soul itself, and is felt to be its legitimate and holi- 
est fruit. Thus, and thus alone, is human nature 
richly developed, and the best interests of life 
wisely embraced. Shadows give way to substance, 
vague wisheito permanent aims, indifferent moods 
to endearing associations, and vain desire to a 
"hope full of immortality." Man is for the first 
time rev^nl^d to him-elf, rtn-i ab'^olrtely knnwn to 
another; for entire s)'mpathy, not friencdy obser- 
vation, is the key to our individual natures ; and 




GRACE. 

when this has fairly opened the sacred portal, we 
are alone no more for ever ! 

Henry T. Tuckerman. 

A CUBAN LOVE SONG. 



HE dewdrops glitter on the tree, 
Gold flaslies the wild, tropic sea. 
And now I'm dreaming, love, of thee, 
Of Charmiane. 

The wood-dove coos within his nest 
With gentle love his home is blest. 
And he knows that I love thee best, 
My Charmiane ! 

Now night is come and fireflies bright 
Shed o'er the flowers their rolden light 
And love-birds call with all their might 
To Charmiane ! 

The silver morn hangs in the sky, 
Around the tower the black bats fly, 
Whilst I am calling soft to my 
Sweet Charmiane. 

Daisy Deane. 

I WON'T BE YOUR DEARIE ANY MORE. 

OU are fickle, oh, so fickle, dare I tell, 



Y' 



All my striving shall undo the magic spell, 
Sweet the dreams I dreamt the while 
Will no more my heart beguile. 

For I won't be your dearie any more. 

All confiding on your single heart I dreamt, 
Little thinking that your vows were never meant ; 
You will wonder when you find. 
That the girl you left behind. 

Isn't going to be your dearie any more. 

In some other luscious beautv's liquid eves 
You will steep your fickle heart with tender sighs, 
But when at length you'll run 
From the fickle web you've spun. 

You will find I'm not your dearie any more. 

Some other bmnet now you'll dote upon. 
And )our evenings at the club will madly run, 
The estrangement will not hurt, 
For with others I can flirt. 

As I won't be your dcaiic any more. 

Rose Reilly. 

157 



158 



H 



ALBUM OF LOVE. 
MY IDEAL. 



ER height? Perhaps you'd deem her tail- 
To be exact, just five feet seven, 
Her arching feet are not too small ; 
Her glancing eyes are bits of heaven. 



Her nose is just the proper size, 
Without a trace of upward turning. 

Her shell-like ears are wee and wise 
The tongue of scandal ever spurning. 




Slim are her hands, though not too wee — 
1 could not fancy useless fingers ; 

Her hands are all that hands should be, 
And own a touch whose memory lingers. 

Though little of her neck is seen, 

That little is both smooth and sightly ; 

And fair as marble is its -hei n 

Above her bodice gleaming whitely. 



In mirth and woe her voice is low. 

Her calm demeanor never fluttered; 
Her every accent stems to go 

Straight to one's heart as soon as uttered. 
She ne'er coquets as otheis do ; 

Her tender heart would never let her. 
^^'here does she dwell? I would I knew. 

As \et, alas ! I've never met her. 

Samuel Minturn Peck, 



ALBUM OF LOVE. 



159 



THE FIRST KISS. 

HOW delicious is the winning 
Of a kiss at love's beginning, 
Wlien two mutual hearts are sighing 
For the knot there's no untying. 
Yet remember, midst your wooing. 
Love has bliss, but love has ruing ; 
Other smiles may make you fickle. 
Tears for other charms may trickle. 

Love he comes, and love he tarries, 
Just as fate or fancy carries, — 
Longest stays when sorest chidden, 
Laughs and flies when pre-sed and bidden. 

Bind the sea to slumber stilly. 
Bind its odor to the lily, 
Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver, — 
Then bind love to last forever ! 

Love's a fire that needs renewal 

Of fresh beauty for its fuel ; 

Love's wing moults wlien caged and captured, — 

Only free he soars enraptured. 

Can you keep the bee from ranging, 
Or the ring-dove's neck from changing ? 
No ! nor fettered love from dying 
In the knot tliere's no untying. 

Thomas Campbell. 

QUAKERDOM. 

THE FORMAL CALL. 

THROUGH her forced, abnormal quiet 
Flashed the soul of frolic riot. 
And a most malicious laughter lighted up 
her downcast ejes ; 
All in vain I tried each topic. 
Ranged from polar climes to tropic, — 
Every commonplace I started met with yes-or-no 
replies. 

For her mother — stiff and stately. 
As if starched and ironed lately — 
Sat erect, with rigid elbows bedded thus in curving 
palms ; 
There she sat on guard before us. 
And in words precise, decorous. 
And most calm, reviewed the weather, and recited 
several psalms. 

How without abruptly ending 

This my visit, and offending 
Wealthy neighbors, was the problem which em- 
ployed my mental care ; 

When the butler, bowing lo'.vly. 

Uttered clearly, stiffly, slo^^ly, 
" Madam, please, the gardener wants you," — 

Heaven, I thought, has heard my prayer. 

" Pardon me !" she grandly uttered ; 
Bowing low, I gladly muttered, 
"Surely, madam !" and, relieved, I turned to scan 
the daughter's face : 



Ha ! what pent-up mirth outflashes 
From beneath those pencilled lashes I 
How the drill of Quaker custom yields to nature';, 
brilliant grace. 
Brightly springs the prisoned fountain 
From the side of Delphi's mountain 
When the stone that weighed upon its buoyant life- 
is thrust aside ; 
So the long-enforced stagnation 
Of the maiden's conversation 
Now imparted five-fold brilliance to its ever-vary- 
ing tide. 
Widely ranging, quickly changing. 
Witty, winning, from beginning 
Unto end I listened, merely flinging in a casual 
word ; 
Eloquent and yet how simple ! 
Hand and eye, and eddying dimple. 
Tongue and lip together made a music seen as well 
as heard. 
When the noonday woods are ringing, 
All the birds of summer singing. 
Suddenly there falls a silence, and we know a ser- 
pent nigh : 
So upon the door a rattle 
Stopped our animated tattle. 
And the stately mother found us prim enough to 
suit her eye. Charles G. Halpine. 

MARION MOORE. 

GONE, art thou, Marion, Marion Moore, 
Gone, like the bird in the autumn that 
singeth ; 
Gone, like tlie flower by the way-side that springeth ; 
Gone, like the leaf of the ivy that clingeth 

Round the lone rock on a storm-beaten shore ! 

Dear wert thou, Marion, Marion Moore, 
Dear as the tide in my broken heart throbbing ; 
Dear as the soul o'er thy memory sobbing ; 
Sorrow my life of its roses is robbing 

Wasting is all the glad beauty of yore. 

I will remember thee, Marion Moore ! 
I shall rememlier, alas ! to regret thee ! 
I will regret when all others forget thee ; 
Deep in my breast will the hour that I met thee 

Linger and burn till life's fever is o'er. 

Gone, art thou, Marion, Marion Moore ! 
Gone, like the breeze o'er the billow that bloweth ; 
Gone, like the rill to the ocean that floweth ; 
Gone, as the day from the grey mountain goeth, 

Darkness behind thee, but glory before. 

Peace to thee, Marion, Marion Moore I 
Peace which the queens of the earth cannot borrow; 
Peace from a kingdom that crowned thee with 

sorrow ; 
O ! to be happy with thee on the morrow 
Who would not fly from this desolate shore ? 

James G. Clark. 



160 



ALBUM OF LOVE. 



SPEAK IT ONCE MORE. 



FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 



SAY over again, and yet once over again, 
That thou dost love me. 'Ihough the word 
repeated 
.Should seem '-'a cuckoo-song," as thou dost treat it, 
Remember, never to the hill or plain. 
Valley and wood, without her cuckoo-strain. 
Comes the fresh spring in all her green completed. 
Beloved, I, amid the darkness greeted 
By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubt's pain 



Cry : ' ' Sptak once more — thou lovest ! ' ' Who can 

fear 
Too many stars, though each in heaven shall roll — 
Too many flowers, though each shall crown the 

year ? 
Say thou dost love me, love me, love me — toll 
The silver iterance ! — only minding, dear, 
To love me also in silence, with thy soul. 

Elizabeth B. Browning. 



HER BRIGHT EYES TOLD ME YES. 

WEET Molly was a maiden coy, divinely fair to see, 
With all a maiden's willfulness she tantalized poor me. 
She laughed at all my pleadings, oh, it .seemed tliey were in vain. 
My ardent vows she ridiculed, and treated with disdain. 
But when I gazed into her face, no more I felt distress, 
For though her li])s they told me no, her bright eyes told me yes. 

Although h(r lips they told me i.o, her bright eyes told me yes, 
Beneath her suee])ing lashes I could see love's tenderness 
Some day I knew she would be mine- — the truth she would confess- — 
For ihougli her lips they told me no, her bright C3es told me ye^. 




At times 1 tried to steal a kiss, my arm crept round 

her waist, 
I tilted up her dimpled chin and stooped, her lips 

to taste. 
And then in simulated wrath, and with a haughty 

"sir," 
She'd tear herself from my embrace, but swift I'd 

follow her, 
And undismayed I'd tr\' again — her thoughts I 

well could guess — 
For though her lips they told me no, her bright 

eyes told me, yes. 



And now for \ears she's been my wife, we both 
are getting old. 

Our heads are white, our backs are btni, but love 
has not grown cold. 

Content we journey har.d in hand along life's 
winding way ; 

Joy keeps our hearts forever young, as on our wed- 
ding day. 

My youthful dreaui came true, I knew I'd have 
this happiness — 

For though her lips they told me no, her bright 
eves told me, ves. Tom L. S.^ppington. 



THE CHESS=BOARD. 



M 



V little love, do you remember. 

Ere we were grown so sadly wise. 
Those evenings in the bleak December, 
Curtained warm from the snowy vieather. 
When you and I played chess together, 
Checkmated by each other's eyes? 



Ah ! still I see your soft white hand 

Hovering warm o'er Queen and Knight; 

Brave Pawns in valiant battle stand ; 

The double Castles guard the wings ; 

'"he Bishop, bent on distant things. 
Moves, sidling, through the fight. 

Our fingers touch ; our glances meet, 
And falter ; falls your golden hair 
Against my cheek ; your hosom sweet 
Is heaving. Down the field your Queen 



letwieii 



Rides slow, her soldiery all 
And checks me unaware. 

Ah me ! the little bank's done ; 
Disperst is all its chivalry. 
Full many a move since then have we 
Mid life's perplexing checkers made, 
.And many a game with fortune played; 

What is it we have won ? 

This, this at least — if this alone : 

That never, never, nevenrore, 

As in those old s'ill nights o' \ore. 
(Ere we were crown so sadly wise), 
Can you and I shut out the skies. 

Shut out the world and wintry weather. 
And eyes exchanging warmth vifith eyes. 

Play chess, as then we played together. 

Robert Bulwer Lytton 




11 



WHISPERS OF LOVE. 



IGl 



162 



ALBUM OF LOVE. 



WOO THE FAIR ONE. 



DOST thou idly ask to hear 
At what gentle seasons 
Nymphs relent, when lovers near 
Press the tenderest reasons ? 
Ah, they give their faith too oft 

To the careless wooer ; 
Maidens' hearts are always soft : 
Would that men's were truer. 



When, through boughs that knit the bower, 
Moonlight gleams are stealing ; 

Woo her, till the gentle hour 
Wake a gentler feeling. 

Woo her, when autumnal dyes 

Tinge the woody mountain ; 
When the drooping foliage lies 

In the weedy fountain; 




MATCHMAKING IN THE OLDEN TIME. 



Woo the fair one, when around 

Early birds are singing ; 
When, o'er all the fragrant ground, 

Early herbs are springing : 
When the brookside, bank, and grove, 

All with blossoms laden, 
Shine with bea.uty, breathe of love — 

Woo the tiniid maiden. 

Woo her when, with rosy blush, 

Suminer eve is sinking ; 
When, on rills that softly gush. 

Stars are softly winking ; 



Let the scene, that tells how fast 

Youth is passing over, 
Warn her, ere her bloom is past. 

To secure her lover. 

Woo her, when the north winds call 

At the lattice nightly ; 
When, within the cheerful hall. 

Blaze the fagots brightly ; 
While the wintry tempest round 

Sweeps the landscape hoary, 
S'^eeter in her ear shall sound 

Love's delightful story. W. C. Bryant. 



ALBUM OF LOVE. 



163 




TWILIGHT shade is calmly falling 
Round about the dew-robed flowers; 
Philomel's lone song is calling 
Lovers to their fairy bowers ; 
Echo, on the zeph)Ts gliding, 

Bears a voice that seems to say — 
"Ears and hearts, come, libt my tiding: 
This has been a wedding day." 

Hark ! The merry chimes are pealing — 
Soft and glad the music swells ; 

Gaily on the night wind stealing, 
Sweetly sound the wedding bells. 

Ev'ry simple breast rejoices, 

Laughter rides upon the gale; 
Happy hearts and happy voices 

Dwell within the lowly vale ; 
O, how sweet, on zephyrs gliding, 

Sound the bells that seem to say — 
"Ears and hearts, come, list my tiding: 

This has been a wedding day." 

Hark ! The merry chimes are pealing — 
Soft and glad the music swells; 

Gaily on the night wind stealing. 
Sweetly sound the wedding bells. 
Eliza Cook. 




164 



ALBUM OF LOVE. 



MIZPAH! 

It is said on good autliority that a common custom among 
the ancient Hebrews when they separated was to speaU the 
word •' Mizpah," meaning tliereby, "Jehovah waich between 
me and thee while we are absent one from another." 

I KISSED your lips, and held your hands, 
And said farewell, and went away, 
'Well knowing that another day 
Would speed you forth to other lands. 
And down the summer-scented street 
I heard your echoing voice repeat 
The Hebrew motto, quaint and sweet : 
" Mizpah!" 

A thousand miles between us lay 

When autumn pas.sed in lingering flight, 
And drenched with fragrant dew at night 

The woodland fires he lit by day ; 
But, all the golden distance through, 
From you to me and me to you 
Went out the tender prayer and true : 
Mizpah ! 

The winter night falls cold and bleak ; 
I sit, in saddened mood, alone, 
And listen to the wind's low moan, 

And hide a fear I dare not speak, 
For you are far, so far away, 
And younger lips have turned to clay; 
Dear love ! I tremble while I pray, 
Mizpah ! 

But spring shall blossom up the plain, 
And Easter lilies scent the air, 
And song birds riot everywhere, 

And heart and hope grow glad again. 
Yet still my nightly prayer shall be, 
Though swallows build or swallows flee, 
Until my love comes back to me, 
Mizpah ! 

And when, with flowers of June, you come. 
And face to face again we stand, 
And heart to heart and hand to hand, 

O love ! within the one dear home : 
We shall not need to say again, 
In winter's snow or summer's rain, 
Till death shall come to part us twain ; 
Mizpah ! 

TRUE LOVE. 

HE offers me no palace, 
No name of high degree ; 
Bright fortune's golden chalice 
He does not bring to me ; 
But he has won my hand, 

And he has gained my heart ; 
For more than palace grand, 
Or all gold can impart 
Is his true love for me ! 
Is his true love for me ! 



By many a tender token, 

By many a winning word, 
I know with love unbroken 

His heart for me is stirred ; 
For this I give my hand, 

And yield my trusting heart. 
For more than title grand. 

Or aught wealth can impart. 
Is a true heart to me ! 
Is a true heart to me ! 

Bright are the halls of pleasure, 

And grand is fashion's train, 
But far more do I treasure 

A home without a stain ! 
Rank may not alwa) s charm. 

Nor fortune always bless; 
But love the lieart will warm. 

And bring true happiness ! 
Then a bright home for me ! 
Truth, love, and home for me ! 

BONNIE WEE THING. 

BONNIE wee thing! cannie wee thing I 
Lovely wee thing ! wert thou mine, 
I wad wear thee in my bosom, 
Lest my jewel I should tine. 
Wishfully I look, and languish, 
In that bonnie face o' thine; 
And my heart it stounds wi' anguish, 
Lest n]y wee thing be na mine. 

Wit and grace, and love and beauty. 

In ae constellation shine ; 
To adore thee is my duty, 

Goddess o' this soul o' mine ! 
Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing. 

Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, 
I wad wear thee in my bosom, 

Lest my jewel I should tine. 

Robert Burns. 

HER CHRISTMAS LETTER. 

HEN' I write to you 

My pen I'd dip with honey dew, 
When I write to you. 



w 



What can a woman say ! 

Not hers to sing love's roundelay. 
What can a woman say ! 

" Faithful, strong and true !" 

Must run my letter through. 
When I write to you. 

AVhen you are far away 

My heart can make no holiday ; 
Come Christmas when it may. 

Augusta Prescott. 



ALBUM OF LOVE. 



166 




OH DOUBT ME NOT! 

OH doubt me not ! — the season 
Is o'er, when folly made me rove, 
And now the vestal, reason, 
Shall watch the fire awaked by love. 
Although this heart was early blown, 

And fairest hands disturbed the tree, 
They only shook some blossoms down. 
Its fruit has all been kept for thee. 
Then doubt me not — the season 

Is o'er, when folly made me rove ; 
And now the vestal, reason. 

Shall watch the fire awaked by love. 

Thomas Moore. 



REMEMBERED. 

NAY, tempt me not to love again, 
There was a time when love was sweet ; 
Dear Nea ! had I known thee then. 
Our souls had not been slow to meet ! 
But, oh ! this weary heart hath run 
So many a time the rounds of pain, 
Not e'en for thee, thou lovely one! 
Would I endure such pangs again. 
In pleasure's dream or sorrow's hour, 
In crowded hall or lonely bower. 
The business of my soul shall be, 
Forever to remember thee ! 

Thomas Moore. 



166 



ALBUM OF LOVE. 




TO MY DREAM- LOVE. 



WHERE art thou, oh ! my beautiful ? Afar 
I seek thee sadly, till the day is done, 
And o'er the splendor of the setting sun, 
Cold, calm, and silvery floats the even- 
ing star : 
Where art thou ? Ah ! where art thou, hid in light 
That haunts me, yet still wraps thee from my 
sight ? 

Not wholly, ah I not wholly — still love's eyes 
Trace thy dim beauty through the mvstic veil, 
Like the young moon that glimmers faint and pale. 
At noon-tide through the sun-web of the skies: 
But ah ! I ope mine arms, and thou art gone. 
And only memory knows where thou hast shone. 

Niglit — night the tender, the compassionate, 
Bindeth thee, gem-like, 'mid her raven hair: 
I dream, I see, I feel that thou art there — 
And stand all weeping at sleep's golden gate, 
Till the leaves open, and the glory streams 
Down through my tranced soul in radi nt dreams. 

Too short, too short, soon comes the chilly morn. 
To shake from love's boughs all their sleep-born 
bloom, 



And wake my heart back to its bitter doom. 
Sending me through the land downcast, forlorn, 
Whilst thou, my beautiful, art far away. 
Bearing the brightness from my joyless day. 

I stand and gaze across earth's fairest sea, 
And still the flashing of the restless main 
Sounds like the clashing of a prisoner's chain. 
That binds me, oh ! my beautiful, from thee. 
Oh ! sea-bird, flashing i)ast on snow-white wing. 
Bear my soul to her in thy wandering ! 

My heart is weary, gazing o'er the sea — 
O'er the long dreary lines that close the sky : 
Through solemn sunsets ever mournfully, 
Gazing in vain, my beautiful, for thee; 
Hearing the sullen waves for evermore 
Dashing around me on the lonely shore. 

But tides creep lazily about the sands. 
Washing frail land-marks, Lethe-like, away; 
And though their records perish day by day. 
Still stand I ever with close-claped hands. 
Gazing far westward o'er the heaving sea. 
Gazing in vain, my beautiful, for thee. 

Walter A. Cassels. 



KISS ME, AND BE STILL. 



SWEETHEART, if there should come a time 
When in my careworn face 
The beauty of a vanished prime. 
You strive in vain to trace ; 
When faded tresses gray and thin, 

Defy the binder's skill ; 
Sweetheart, betray no sign. 
By word no look repine. 
Think of the grace that once was mine; 
Kiss me and be still. 

Sweetheart, if there should come a year 

When from my withered lips 
The loving word that now rings clear. 

In tuneless weakness slips ; 
If I should sing with quavering voice 



Some old song worse than ill, 
Sweetheart, with kind deceit, 

No mocking words repeat. 
Think of the voice that once was sweet ; 

Kiss me, and be still. 

Sweetheart, if there should come a day — 

I know not when nor how — 
When your love beams with lessening ray. 

That burns so brightly now ; 
When you can meet my faithful eyes, 

And feel no answering thrill ; 
Sweetheart, let me know — 

I could not bear the woe — 
Think of the dear, dead long ago ; 

Kiss me, and be still. 

Samuel Minturn Peck. 



ALBUM OF LOVE. 



167 



THE ARCTIC LOVER. 



GONE is the long, long winter night; 
Look, uiy beloved one ! 
How glorious, through his depths of light, 
Rolls the niajestit; sun ! 
The willows waked from winter's death, 
Give out a fragrance like thy breath — 
The summer is begun ! 

Ay, 'tis the long bright summer day : 

Hark, to that mighty crash ! 
The loosened ice-ridge breaks away — 

The smitten waters flash. 
Seaward the glittering mountain rides. 
While down its green translucent sides. 

The foamy torrents dash. 

See, love, my boat is moored for thee. 

By ocean's weedy floor — 
The petrel does not skim the sea 

More swiftly than my oar. 
We'll go, where, on the rocky isles. 
Her eggs the screaming sea-fowl piles 

Beside the pebbly shore. 



Or, bide thou where the poppy blows. 
With wind-flowers frail and i'air. 

While L upon his isle of snows, 
Seek and defy the bear. 

Fierce though he be, and huge of frame, 

This arm his savage strength shall tame. 
And drag him from his lair. 

When crimson sky and flamy cloud 

Bespeak the summer o'er, 
And the dead valleys wear a shroud 

Of snows that melt no more, 
ril build of ice thy winter home. 
With glistening walls and glassy dome. 

And spread with skins the floor. 

The white fox by thy couch shall play; 

And, from the frozen skies. 
The meteors of a mimic day 

Shall flash upon thine eyes. 
And I — for such thy vow — meanwhile 
Shall hear thy voice and see thy smile. 

Till that long midnight flies. 

W^ C. Bryant. 



THE POWER OF LOVE. 

THE passion remakes the world for the youth It makes all things alive and significant. Nature 
grows conscious Every bird on the boughs of the tree sings now to his heart and soul. 
Almost the notes are articulate. The clouds have faces, as he looks on them. The trees 
of the forest, the waving grass and the peeping flowers have grown intelligent ; and almost he fears 
to trust them with the secret which they seem to invite. Yet nature soothes and sympathizes. In 
the green solitude he finds a dearer home than with men. 

" Fountain heads and pathless groves, 
Places which pale pa.=sion loves. 
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls 
Are safely housed, save bats and owls, 
A midnight bell, a passing groan, 
These are the sounds we feed upon." 

Behold there in the wood the fine madman! He is a palace of sweet sounds and sights; 
he dilates; he is twice a man; he walks with arms akimbo; he solilocjuizes ; he accosts the grass 
and the trees; he feels the blood of the violet, the clover and the lily in his veins; and he talks 
with the brook that wets his foot. 

The causes that have sharpened his perceptions of natural beauty have made him love music 
and verse. It is a fact often observed that men have written good verses under the inspiration 
of passion, who cannot write well under any other circumstances. 

The like force has the passion over all his nature. It expands the sentiment ; it makes the 
clown gentle, and gives the coward heart. Into the most pitiful and abject it will infuse a heart 
and courage to defy the world, so only it have the countenance of the beloved object. In giving 
him to another, it still more gives him to himself. He is a new man, with new perceptions, new 
and keener purposes, and a religious solemnity of character and aims. He does not longer appertain 
to his family and society. He is somewhat. He is a person. He is a soul. 

R. W. Emerson. 



1G8 



ALBUM OF LOVE. 




THE WELCOME. 

OME in the evening, or come in the morning; 

Come when you're looked for, or come without warning; 
Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you. 
And the oftener you come here tlie more I'll adore you 1 
Light is my heart since the day we were plighted ; 
Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted ; 
The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, 
And the linnets are singing, "True lovers don't sever!" 

I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose them ! 
Or, after you've kissed them, they'll lie on my bosom; 
I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire you; 
ril fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire you. 
Oh ! your step's like the rain to the summer-vexed flirmer, 
Or sabre and shield to a knight without armor; 
I'll sing you sw-eet songs till the stars rise above me, 
Then wandering, I'll wish you in silence to love me. 



We'll look througli the trees at the cliff and the 

eyrie ; 
We'll tread round the rath on the track of the fairy ; 
We'll look on the stars and we'll list to the river, 
Till you ask of your darling what gift you can give 

her. 
Oh ! she'll whisper you- — " Love, as imchangeably 

beaming, 
And trust, wlien in secret, most tunefully streaming; 
Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver. 
As our souls flow in one down eternity's river." 



So come in the evening, or come in the morning; 
Come when jou're looked for, or come without 

warning ; 
Kisses anil welcome you'll find here before you. 
And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore 

you ! 
Light is my heart since the day we were plighted > 
Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted ; 
The green of the trees looks far greener than ever^ 
And the linnets are singing, "True lovers don't 

sever ! ' ' Thomas Davis. 



CAN YOU FORGET ME? 



CAN you forget me? — I who have so cher- 
ished 
The veriest trifle that was memory's link? 
The roses that you gave me, although perished, 
Were jsrecious in my sight ; they made me 
think 
You took tliem in their scentless beauty stooping 

From the warm slielter of the garden wall ; 

Autumn, while into languid w-inter drooping, 

Gave its last blossoms, opening but to fill. 

Can you forget them ? 

Can you forget me ? My whole soul was blended ; 

At least it sought to blend itself with thine ; 
My life's whole jnirpose, winning thee, seemed 
ended ; 
Thou wert my heart's sweet home — my spirit's 
shrine. 

THE STARS ARE WITH 



T 



HE stars are with the voyager 

Wherever he may sail ; 
The moon is constant to her time ; 
The sun w ill never fail ; 
But follow, follow round the world, 

The green earth and the sea ; 
So love is with the lover's heart, 
Wherever he may be. 



Can you forget me? — when the firelight burning. 
Flung sudden gleams around the quiet room ? 
How would thy words, to long past moments turn- 
ing. 
Trust me with thoughts soft as the shadowy 
gloom ! 

Can you forget them ? 

Can you forget me? This is vainly tasking 
The faithless heart where I, alas ! am not. 
Too well I know the idleness of asking — 

The misery — of why am I forgot? 
The happy hours that I have passed while kneeling. 

Half slave, half child, to gaze upon thy face. 
But what to thee this passionate appealing — 
Let my heart break — it is a common case. 
You have forgotten me. 
Letitia E. Laxdon. 
THE VOYAGER. 

Wherever he may be, the stars 

Must daily lose their light ; 
The moon will veil her in the shade ; 

The sun will set at night. 
The sun may set, but constant love 

Will shine when he's away ; 
So that dull night is never night. 

And day is brighter day. 

Thomas Hood. 



ALBUM OF LOrE. 



169 



ETHEL'S SONG OF LOVE. 

FROM ''twin souls: a psychic romance." 



I LOVE, and my heart that was dying, 
Scarce gasping a tremulous I reath, 
To song turns its sorrowful sighing, 
And CL-ahcs its moanings for death ; 
O worlds ! hear my jubilant singing — 

Notes keyed to the coo of the dove — 
Notes keyed to the clarion, ringing — 
O worlds, 'tis the music of love ! 

O love, I hear melodies stealing 

From woodlands and meadows and deli'. 



Now, hues of the May-trees are whiter. 
And deeper the blush of the dawn. 

The far constellations are brighter, 
The wail of the night winds is gone. 

Hush, hush ! Through the shadows that hover 
Around me this star-lighted night, 

I catch the footfall of my lover — 
Two beings in one now unite ; 

He comes with the glow of the morning, 
He comes with the breath of the spring; 




As if the glad angels were pealing 
Soft chimes from invisible bells ; 

A mystical harp thou art thrumming. 

Whose strings are the sun's mellow beams- 

I list to the sweet, tender humming, 
And hear it again in my dreams. 

O love, my hot brow thou art wreathing 
With blossoms pearl dews have caressed ; 

With affluent joy thou art breathing 
New life through my perishing breast ; 



Too cheap were such tawdry adorning 
As graces the head of a king. 

O lover, to me thou art bringing 

The gems of earth's opulent zones. 
And down at my feet thou art flinging 

Far more than the splendor of thrones ! 
Poor, poor was my spirit and dying, 

Till thou to my bosom didst fly. 
Now, angels as well might be sighing, 

And jiant in their heaven to die. 

Henry Davenport. 



FOR LOVE'S SWEET SAKE. 



A 



WAKE ! — the starry midnight hour 

Hangs charmed, and pauseth in its flight; 
In its own sweetness sleeps the flower. 
And the doves lie hushed in deep delight. 
Awake ! awake ! 
Look forth, my love, for love's sweet sake ! 

Awake ! — soft dews will soon arise 

From daisied mead and thorny brake: 
Then, sweet, uncloud those eastern eyes, 
And like the tender morning break ! 
Awake ! awake ' 
Dawn forth, my love, for love's sweet sake ! 



Awake ! — within the musk-rose bower 

I watch, pale flower of love, for thee. 
Ah. come ! and show the starry hour 

What wealth of love thou hid'st from me! 
Awake ! awake ! 
Show all thy love, for love's sweet sake ! 

Awake ! — ne'er heed though listening night 

Steal music from thy silver voice ; 
Uncloud thy beauty, rare and bright, 
And bid the world and me rejoice ! 
Awake ! awake ! — 
She comes at last, for love's sweet sake. 

Barry Cornwall. 



170 



ALBUM OF LOVE. 



Y 



THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. 

FROM "THE DAY DREAM." 

EAR after year unto her feet, 
She lying on her couch alone, 
Across the purple coverlet. 
The maiden's jet-black hair has grown ; 
On either side her tranced form 

Forth streaming from a braid of pearl ; 
The sliimb'rous light is rich and warm, 
And moves not on the rounded curl. 



The silk star LiroidL-red coverlid 

Unto her limbs itself doth mould, 
Languidly ever ; and amid 

Her full black ringlets, downward roilr-d, 
Glows forth each softly shadowed a:m, 

With bracelets of the diamond brighl. 
Her constant beauty doth inform 

Stillness with love, and day with light. 

She sleeps ; her breathings are not heard 

In palace chambers far ajiart. 
The fragrant tresses are not stirred 

That lie upon her charmed heart. 
She sleeps ; on either hand upswells 

The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest ; 
She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells 

A perfect form in perfect rest. 

Alfred Tennyson. 

THE REVIVAL OF THE "SLEEPING 
BEAUTY. " 

FROM " THE DAY DREAM." 



A 




TOUCH, a kiss ! the charm was snapt. 
There rose a noise of striking clocks ; 
And feet that ran, and doors that clapt, 
And barkine dogs, and crowing cocks; 
A fuller light illumined all ; 



A breeze throujh all the garden swept; 
A sudden hubbub shook the hall; 
And sixty feet the fountain leapt. 

The hedge broke in, the banner blew. 

The butler drank, the steward scrawled. 
The fire shot up, the martin flew, 

The parrot screamed, the peacock squalled ; 
The maid and page renewed their strife ; 
The palace banned, and buzzed and clackt ; 
And all the long-pent stream of life 
Dashed downward in a cataract. 

And last of all the king awoke, 

And in his chair himself upreared. 
And yawned, and rubbed his face, and 
spoke : 

" By holy rood, a royal beard ! 
How say you ? we have slept, my lords ; 

My beard has grown into my lap " 
The barons swore, with many words, 

'T was but an after-dinner's nap. 

" Pardy !" returned the king, " but still 

My joints are something stiff or so. 
My lord, and shall we pass the bill 

I mentioned half an hour ago?" 
The chancellor, sedate and vain, 

In courteous words returned reply ; 
But dallied with his golden chain. 

And, smiling, put the question by. 

Alfred Tennyson. 

THE "SLEEPING BEAUTY" DEPARTS 
WITH HER LOVER. 

FROM "THE DAY DREAM." 

AND on her lover's arm she leant. 
And round her waist she felt it fold ; 
And far across tlie hills they went 
In that new world which is the old. 
Across the hills, and far away 

Beyond their utmost purple rim. 
And deep into the dying day, 

The happy princess followed him. 

" I'd sleep another hundred years, 

O love, for such another kiss !" 
" O wake forever, love," she hears, 

" O love, 't was such as this and this." 
And o'er them many a sliding star. 

And many a merry wind was borne. 
And, streamed through many a golden bar, 

The twilight melted into morn 

" O eyes long laid in happy sleep !" 

" O happy sleep, that lightly fled !" 
" Q happy kiss, that woke thy sleep !" 

" O love, thy kiss would wake the dead I" 
And o'er them many a flowing range 

Of vapor buoyed the crescent bark ; 
And, rapt through many a rosy change. 

The twilight died into the dark. 



ALBUM OF LOVE. 



171 



^' A hundred summers ! can it be? 

And whither goest thou, tell me where !" 
" O, seek my father's court with ine, 

For there are greater wonders there." 
And o'er the hills, and far away 

Beyond their utmost ])urple rim, 
Beyond the night, across the day, 

Through all the world she followed him. 
Alfred Tennyson. 



Y 



THE BELLE OF THE BALL. 

EARS, years ago, ere yet my dreams 
Had been of being wise or witty. 
Ere I had done with writing themes, 
Or yawned o'er this infernal Chitty — 
Years, years ago, while all my joys 

Were in my fowling-piece and filly ; 
In short, while I was yet a boy, 
I fell in love with Laura Lilly. 

I saw her at the county ball ; 

There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle 
•Gave signal sweet in that old hall 

Of hands across and down the middle. 
Hers was the subtlest spell by far 

Of all that sets young hearts romancing : 
She was our queen, our rose, our star ; 

And then she danced — O heaven ! her dancing. 

Dark was her hair ; her hand was white ; 

Her voice was exquisitely tender ; 
Her eyes well full of liquid light ; 

I never saw a waist so slender ; 
Her every look, her every smile, 

Shot right and left a score of arrows : 
I thought 't was Venus from her isle, 

And wondered where she'd left her sparrows. 

Through sunny May, through sultry June, 

I loved her with a love eternal ; 
I spoke her praises to the moon, 

I wrote them to the Sunday journal. 
My mother laughed ; I soon found out 

That ancient ladies have no feeling : 
My father frowned ; but how should gout 

See any happiness in kneeling ? 

She was the daughter of a dean — 

Rich, fat and rather apoislectic ; 
She had one brother just thirteen, 

Whose color was extremely hectic ; 
Her grandmother for many a year. 

Had fed the parish with her bounty ; 
Her second cousin was a peer. 

And lord-lieutenant of the county. 

But titles and the three-per-cents. 

And mortgages, and great relations, 
And India bonds, and tithes and rents, 
■ O, what are they to love's sensations ; 
Black e) es, fair forehead, clustering locks — 



Such wealth, such honors Cupid chooses; 
He cares as little for the stocks 

As Baron Rothschild for the muses. 

She sketched ; the vale, the wood, the beach. 

Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading: 
She botanized ; I envied each 

Young blossom in her boudoir fading : 
She warbled Handel ; it was grand — 

She made the Catilina jealous : 
She touched the organ ; I could stand 

For hours and hours to blow the bellows. 

And she was flattered, worshipped, bored ; 

Her steps were watched, her dress was noted ; 
Her poodle-dog was quite adored ; 

Her sayings were extremely quoted. 
She laughed — and every heart was glad, 

As if the taxes were abolished ; 
She frowned — and every look was sad, 

As if the opera were demolished 

She smiled on many just for fun — 

I knew that there was nothing in it; 
I was the first, the only one, 

Her heart had thought of for a minute. 
I knew it, for she told me so, 

In phrase which was divinely moulded ; 
She wrote a charming hand — and O, 

How sweetly all her notes were folded ! 

Our love was most like other loves, — 

A little glow, a little shiver, 
A rosebud and a pair of gloves. 

And "Fly Not Yet," upon the river ; 
Some jealousy of some one's heir. 

Some hopes of dying broken-hearted ; 
A miniature, a lock of hair. 

The usual vows — and then we parted. 

We parted : months and years rolled by; 

We met again four summers after. 
Our parting was all sob and sigh. 

Our meeting was all mirth and laughter ! 
For in my heart's most secret cell 

There had been many other lodgers ; 
And she was not the ball-room's belle. 

But only Mrs. — Something — Ropers ! 

WiNTHROP M. Praed. 



M 



iVlY TRUE-LOVE HATH MY HEART. 

Y true-love hath my heart, and I have his. 
By just exchange one to the other given : 
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss. 
There never was a better bargain driven : 
My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. 

His heart in me keeps him and me in one ; 

My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides: 
He loves my heart, for once it was his own ; 

I cherish his because in me it bides : 
My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. 

Sir Philip Sidney. 



17 



7'T! 



ALBUM OF LOVE. 



A REVERIE. 

IT was only a winsome way she liad, 
As there in the twilight gray 
She smiled on me till my heart was glad, 
In the glad, old-fashioned way; 
And fainter far than echoes are 

Was the touch of a tremulous tone 
That round me fell with the magic spell 
Of a hand that cl.isped my own. 

1 he rough old river, close to our feet, 

Ran on with curve and fret 
As our love once ran on its way to meet 

And be lost in a vain regret ; 
My darkened room shook out its gloom 

Into folds of a fair delight, 
Ti 1 overhead was canopied 

By only the stars of night. 

She (lung me a shred of broken song, 

Raveled from the unrest 
That flutters where faith has suffered wrong 

From doubts in the himian breast ; 
And here and there and everywhere 

The world bent down to wait. 
With ir.e, the sign of a form divine 

And the click of a cottage gate. 

Ah ! Fate, you cannot hide her face 

And fairy form from me ! 
For th^ soul is careless of time and space 

And master of things to be; 
And while you would have my spirit sad 

As I sit in tlie twilight gray, 
She smiles on me till my heart is glad 

In the glad, old-fashioned way. 

THE BACHELOR'S SOLILOQUY. 

TO marry or not to marry ? that's the question. 
Whether 'tis nobler in the bach to suffer 
The jeers and banters of outrageous females, 
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles. 
And by proposing, end them. To court; to marry, 
To be a bach no more : and, by a marriage end 
The heart-ache, and the thousand and one ills 
Bachelors are heir to ; 'tis a consummation 
Devoutly to be wished. To court, to marry; 
To marry ! perchance to rue — ay, there's the rub; 
For in that state what afterthoughts may come. 
When we have shuffled off this bachelor coil, 
Must bring repentance. 

There's the respect 
That makes men live so long a single life, 
For who would bear the scorn of jiretty girls. 
The hints of widows, the insolence of married men, 
The inconveniences of undarned socks, 
And thread-bare coats, and shirts with buttons off, 
The pangs of love-fits, and the misery 
Of sleeping with cold feet, the damps, the blues, 
The horrors and the owl-like loneliness; 



When he himself might his quietus make 

With a bare "will you have me?" Who would bear 

To fret and groan under a single life, 

But that the dread of something after marriage — 

That undiscovered net-work from whose meshes 

No venturer escapes, puzzles the will, 

And makes us rather bear the ills we have 

Than fly to others that we know not of? 



B 



CONSTANCY. 

ENE.\'rH the shadows of the trees, 
In groves where floats the perfumed breeze, 
'Mid roses and 'mid violets, 

I wait, O, love, for thee. 

'Neath skies of deep and sunny blue 
By water diat reflects its hue, 
By bayou deep a-.id shallow bay, 
I wait, O, love, for thee. 

With 3 outh and ever-living love, 
Whicli comes to us from Heaven above, 
With hope and trust and charity, 
I wait, C3, love, for thee. 

'Till age shall turn my dark hair gray, 
'Till life's illusions fade away, 
'Till earth shall sever life's frail cord, 
I'll wait, O, love, for thee. 

Adele Auze. 



G 



GO, HAPPY ROSE. 

(), happy rose ! and interwove 
With other flowers, bind my love ! 
Tell her, too, she must not be 
Longer flowing, longer free. 
That so oft hath fettered me. 

Say, if she's fretful, I have bands 
Of ])earl and gold to bind her hands; 
Tell her, if she struggle still, 
I have myrtle rods at will. 
For to tame, though not to kill. 

Take then my blessing thus, and go. 
And tell her this, — but do not so ! 
Lest a handsome anger fly. 
Like a lightning from her eye, 
And burn thee up, as well as I. 

Robert Herrick, 

LIGHT. 

THE night has a thousand eyes, 
And the day but one ; 
Yet the light of the bright world dies. 
With the dying sun. 

The mind has a thousand eyes. 

And the heart but one : 
Yet the light of a whole life dies. 

When love is done. 

Francis W. Bourdillon. 




CONSTANCY. 



173 



17-t 



ALBUM OF LOVE. 



H 



LOVE AND MAY. 

ER words full soft upon m . ear, 

Like dropping dews from leafy spray 
Siie knew no shame, and felt no fear ; 
She told me how her childhood grew — 
Her joys how keen, her cares how few : 
She smiled, and said her name was May. 




Wild as an untamed bird of spring. 
She sported 'mid the forest ways, 
Whose blossoms pale did round her cling, 
Blithe was she as the banks of June, 
Where humming-bees kept sweetest tune ; 
The soul of love was in her lays. 

Still, shouting 'neath the greenwood tree, 

Glad children call upon her name ; 
But life and time are changed to me : 
The grass is growing where she trod, 
Above her head a bladeless sod — 
The very earth is not the same. 

Eleonor.\ L. Hervev. 



A 



ESTRANGED. 

\\ well ! we are wiser at last ; 



\^ 



I marked her for a little space ; 

And soon she seemed to heed me not, 
But gathered flowers before my face. 
Oh, sweet to me her untaught ways ! 
The love I bore her all my days 

Was born of that wild woodland sjwt. 
I never called her bride nor wife, 

I watched her bloom a little more, 
And then she faded out of life : 
She quaffed the wave I might not drink, 
.\nd I stood thirsting on the brink ! 

Oh ! hurrying tide ! — Oh, dreary shore ! 



The charming delusion is over; 
Your dream of devotion is past. 
And I — am no longer a lover. 
But, darling (allow me the phrase 
'/ For simple civility's sake), 

^ Don't think in this calmest of lays, 

I've any reproaches to make. 

Ah no ! not a querulous word 

Shall fall from my passionless pen , 
The sharp little scoldings you've heard 

I never shall utter again. 
But if in this final adieu, 
,',«• Too chilly for even a kiss, 

^*A I venture a comment or two. 

You surely won't take it amiss. 

I'm thinking, my dear, of the day — 
^-- (Well, habit is certainly queer, 
And still, in a lover-like way, 

I call you my "darling " and " dear"), 
I'm thinking, I say, of the time 

I vowed you were charmingly clever. 
And raved of your beautv in rhyme, 

And promised to love you forever ! 

Forever ! a beautiful phrase. 

Suggestive of heavenly pleasure, 
That millions and millions of days 

Were wholly unequal to measure ! 
And yet, as we sadly have seen. 
The case is remarkably clear, 
'Tis a word that may happen to mean 
Rather less than a calendar year ! 

Yet I never have broken my vow. 

Although I admit that I swore 
To love you forever, and now 

Confess that I love you no more ; 
For, since you're no longer the same, 

(Heaven pardon and pity us both !) 
To be loving you now, I proclaim, 

Were really breaking my oath ! 

John G. Saxe. 



ALBUM OF LOVE. 



175 



LOVE ME LITTLE, LOVE ME LONG. 

This poem, the aulh^r uf which is unknown, was originally 
printed more than 300 years ago. The title has become a 
common saying, and the sentiment appears to have been sug- 
gested by another saying, that " hot love is always short." 

LOVE me little, love me long ! 
Is the burden of my song : 
Love that is too hot and strong 
Burneth soon to waste. 
Still I would not have thee cold, — 
Not too b ckward, nor too bold ; 
Love that lasteth till 't is old 

Fadeth not in haste. 
Love me little, love me long ! 
Is the burden of my song. 

If thou lovest me too much, 
'Twill not prove as true a touch ; 
Love me little more than such, — 

For I fear the end. 
I'm with little well content. 
And a little from thee sent 
Is enough, with true intent 

To be steadfast, friend. 

Say thou lovest me, while thou live, 
I to thee my love will give, 
Never dreaming to deceive 

While that life endures; 
Nay, and after death, in sooth, 
I to thee will keep my truth, 
As now when in my May of youth : 

This my love assures. 

Constant love is moderate ever, 
And it will through life persever' ; 
Give me that with true endeavor, — 

I will it restore. 
A suit of durance let it be, 
For all weathers, — that for me, — 
For the land or for the sea ; 

Lasting evermore. 

Winter's cold or summer's heat, 
Autumn's tempests on it beat; 
It can never know defeat. 

Never can rebel : 
Such the love that I would gain, 
Such the love, I tell thee plain, 
Thou must give, or woo in vain : 

So to thee — farewell ! 

THE MILKMAID'S SONG. 

PULL, pull ! and the pail is full. 
And milking's done and over. 
Who would not sit here under the tree ? 
What a fair, fair thing's a green field to see ! 
Brim, brim, to the rim, ah me ! 
1 have set my pail on the daisies! 
It seems so light — can the sun be set ? 
The dews must be heavy, my cheeks are wet, 
I could cry to have hurt the daisies ! 



Harry is near, Harry is near, 

My heart's as sick as if he were here. 

My lips are burning, my cheeks are wet, 

He hasn't uttered a word as yet, 

But the air's astir with his praises. 

My Harry ! 

The air's astir with your praises. 

He has scaled the rock by the pixy's stone. 

He's among the kingcups — he picks me one, 

I love the grass that I tread upon 

When I go to my Harry ! 

He has jumped the brook, he has climbed the 

knowe. 
There's never a faster foot I know. 
But still he seems to tarry. 

Harry ! O Harry ! my love, my pride, 
My heart is leaping, my arms are wide ! 
Roll up, roll up, you dull hillside, 

Roll up, and bring my Harry ! 
They may talk of glory over the sea, 
But Harry's alive, and Harry's for me. 
My love, my lad, my Harry ! 

Come spring, come winter, come sun, come snow, 

What cares Dolly, whether or no. 

While I can milk and marry ? 

Right or wrong, and wrong or right, 

Quarrel who quarrel, and fight who fight. 

But I'll bring my pail home every night 

To love, and home, and Harry ! 

We'll drink our can, we'll eat our cake, 

There's beer in the barrel, there's bread in the 

bake. 
The world may sleep, the world may wake. 
But I shall milk and marry. 
And marry, 

1 shall milk and marry. 

Sydney Dobell. 

THE PLAYTHING. 

KITTY'S charming voice and face, 
Syren-like, first caught mv fancy; 
Wit and humor next take j lace, 

And now I dote on sprightly Nancy. 

Kitty tunes her pipe in vain. 

With airs most languishing ar.d dying ; 
Calls me false, ungrateful swain, 

And tries in vain to shoot me flying. 

Nancy with resistless art. 

Always humorous, gay, and witty. 

Has talked herself into my heart, 
And quite excluded tuneful Kitty. 

Ah. Kitty ! Love, a wanton boy. 

Now pleased with song, and now with prattle,. 
Still longing for the newest toy. 

Has changed his whistle for a rattle. 



176 



ALBUM OF LOVE. 



WHEN SHOULD LOVERS BREATHE 
THEIR VOWS? 

HEN should lovers breathe their vows? 

When should ladies hear them? 
When the dew is on the boughs, 

When none else are near them 
When the moon shines colJ and pale, 



w 




When the birds are sleeping, 
When no voice is on the gale, 

When the ro^e is weeping ; 
When the stars are bright on high, 

Like hopes in young love's dreaming. 
And glancing round the light clouds fly, 

Like soft fears to shade their beaming. 

The fairest smiles are those that live 
On the brow by starliglit wreathing ; 

And the lips their richest incense give 
When the sigh is at midnight breathing. 

•O, softest is the cheek's love-ray 
When seen by moonlight hours, 



Other roses seek the day, 

But blushes are night flowers. 
O, when the moon and stars are bright. 

When the dew drops glisten, 
Then their vows shoul i lovers plight, 

Then should ladies listen ! 

Letitia E. Laxdon. 

MOLL McCARTV. 

She's not so very gay, 
But I can't stay away 
P'roin her party — from 
her party. 
Down the street, beside 

the glare 
Of a lamplight's rosy 
flare 
Lives McCarty — Moll 
McCarty. 
Chorus: — .'^nd her eyes 

shine bright 
Like the stars o i frosty 
night, 
And just as hearty — 
just as hearty, 
With a crystalline de- 
light 
That sinks my soul in 
plight. 
Oh, McCarty — Moll 
McCarty. 
Her lips are cherry red. 
Like rosebuds in their bed ; 
Or at a party — at a party. 
When the sad tears fill her eye, 
Then in sympathv I cry 

With McCarty— Moll McCarty, 
You're not so very gay. 
But you stole my heart away 

At your party — at your party ; 
And though o'er this world I'd roam 
My heart would turn to you as home, 

Sweet McCarty — Moll McCarty. 
Your home be-ide the flare 
Of lamplight's rosy glare 

Holds a party — holds a party: 
The sweet babe upon my knee. 
Who resembles you and me. 
My McCarty — Moll McCarty. 

Charles M. Wallington. 

A HEINE LOVE SONG. 

THE ima^^e of the moon at night 
All trembling in the ocean lies, 
But she, with calm and steadfast light, 
Moves proudly through the radiant skies 
How like the tranquil moon thou art — 

Thou fairest flower of womankind! 

And, look, within my fluttering heart 

Thy image trembling is enshrined ! 

Eugene Field. 




lUV LOVK lb OVER THE SEA. 



12 



177 



178 



ALBUM OF LOVE. 



A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE. 



T 



HIS is the place. Stand still, my steed, 
Let me review the scene, 
And summon from the shadowy past 
The forms that once have been. 



The past and present here unite 

Beneath time's flowing tide, 
Like footprints hidden by a brook, 

But seen on either side. 

Here runs the highway to the town ; 

There the green lane descends, 
Through which I walked to church with thee, 

O gentlest of my friends ! 

The shadow of the linden-trees 

Lay moving on the grass ; 
Between them and the moving boughs, 

A shadow, thou didst pass. 

Thy dress was like the lilies, 

And thy heart as pure as ihey: 
One of God's holy messengers 

Did walk \vith me that day. 

I saw the branches of the trees 

Bend down thy touch to meet. 
The clover-blossoms in the grass 

Rise up to kiss thy feet. 

" Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, 

Of earth and folly born ! " 
Solemnly sang the village choir 

On that sweet Sabbath morn. 



Through the closed blinds the golden sun 

Poured in a dusty beam. 
Like the celestial ladder seen 

By Jacob in his dream. 

And ever and anon, the wind. 

Sweet-scented with the hay. 
Turned o'er the hymn-book's fluttering leaves 

That on the window lay. 

Long was the good man's sermon. 

Yet it seemed not so to me ; 
For he spoke of Ruth the beautiful. 

And still I thought of thee. 

Long was the prayer he uttered, 

Yet it .seemed not so to me ; 
For in my heart I prayed with him, 

And still I thought of thee. 

But now, alas ! the place seems changed ; 

Thou art no longer here : 
Part of the sunshine of the scene 

With thee did disappear. 

Though thoughts, deep-rooted in my heart. 

Like pine-trees dark and high. 
Subdue the light of noon, and breathe 

A low and ceaseless sigh ; 

This memory brightens o'er the past, 

As when the sun, concealed 
Behind some cloud that near us hangs, 

Shines on a distant field 

H. W. Longfellow, 



UP I QUIT THY BOWER. 



UP ! quit thy bower ! late wears the hour. 
Long have the rooks cawed round the tower ! 
O'er flower and tree loud hums the bee. 
And the wild kid sports merrily. 
The sun is bright, the sky is clear; 
Wake, lady, wake ! and hasten here. 

LTp, maiden fair ! and bind thy hair. 

And rouse thee in the breezy air ! 

The lulling stream that soothed thy dream 



Is dancing in the sunny beam. 

Waste not these hours, so fresh, so gay: 

Leave thy soft couch, and haste away ! 

Up ! Time will tell the morning bell 
Its service-sound has chimed well ; 
The aged crone keeps house alone, 
The reapers to the fields are gone. 
Lose not these hours, so cool, so gay: 
Lo ! whilst thou sleep's! they haste away ! 

Joanna Baillie, 



FOLLOWING SUIT. 



ONE springtime day a gentle maid 
Adown the garden pathway strayed 
That wound the shady orchard through ; 
And thinking of her eyes of blue, 
And tender glances, sweet and true, 
I followed suit — pray, wouldn't you? 

A saucy breeze that chanced to stray 
Along that fragrant garden way 
Swept back her wavy golden hair, 



Surprised to see a maid so fair. 

And sighed for love such charms to view, 

I followed suit — pray, wouldn't you? 

A ray from out the sunlit sky 
Espied the maid as she passed by. 
And rained his kisses, soft and warm. 
On neck and hair and snowy arm. 
And cheek of apple-blossom hue. 
I followed suit — pray, wouldn't you? 



ALBUM OF LOVE. 



I SAW TWO CLOUDS AT MORNING. 

I SAW two clouds at morning. 
Tinged by the rising sun, 
And in the dawn they floated on, 
And mingled into one; 
I thought that morning cloud was 

blessed , 
It moved so sweetly to the west. 



I saw two summer currents 

Flow smoothly to their meeting, 
And join their course, with silent 
force, 
In peace each other greeting ; 
Calm was their course through banks of 

green, 
AVhile dimpling eddies played between. 

Such be your gentle motion, 

Till life's last pulse shall beat ; 
Like summer's beam and summer's 
stream. 
Float on, in joy, to meet 
A calmer sea, where storm > shall cease, 
A purer sky, where all is peace. 

John G. C. Ijrainard. 

GREEN GROW THE R4SHES OI 

GREEN grow the rash;s O, 
Green grow the rashes O ; 
The sweetest hours that e'er I 
spend 
Are spent amang the lasses O. 

There's naught but care on ev'ry han'. 
In every hour that passes O ; 

What signifies the life o' man. 
An' 't were na for the lasses O ? 

The warly race may riches chase, 
An' riches still may fly them O ; 

An' though at last they catch them fast 
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them O. 

Gie me a canny hour at e'en, 
My arms about my dearie O, 

An warly cares an' warly men 
May all gae tapsalteerie O. 



For you sae douce, ye sneer at this, 
Ye 're naught but senseless asses O ! 

The wisest man the warl' e'er saw 
He dearly lo'ed the lasses O. 

AulJ nature swears the lovely dears 
Tier noblest work she classes O : 

Her 'prentice han' she tried on man, 
And then she made the lasses O. 

Robert Burns. 



T 



A MADRIGAL. 

HE dreary da\s of wiiitLr come, 
The fields are bare, the woods are dumb, 
And chilled with drenching rain ; 
But, dearest, in vour face I see 
The merry, merry months again. 




For April left within your eyes 
The peerless azure of his skies ; 

And snowy blooms of May 
Are on your brow; and June impressed 

The kisses of his rosiest day 

On either cheek. As for your hair, 
September stored his treasure there 

Of glittering gold, that I 
Might gaze thereon and valiantly 

The winter frosts and chills defv. 



180 



ALBUM OF LOVE. 




*V:,,V^'V^ g.>^^ 








T 



HROUGH the golden corn we went, 
In the rosy evening light ; 
We, the poppies mid the gold. 
Gathered with a child's delight. 



Time was naught to us, for we 
Scarcely felt the moments glide ; 

She, in robes of i)urest white. 
Seemed an angel by my side. 

O, that glorious sunset hour. 

With its radiance round us thrown, 

Seemed an emblem sweet and fair, 
Of the joy I deemed my own. 

LOVE'S 

IF I were blind and thou shouldst enter 
E'er so softly in the room, 
I should know it, 
I should feel it. 
Something subtle would reveal it, 
And a glory round the centre 
That would lighten up the gloom. 
And my heart would surely guide me, 
With love's second-sight provide me, 
One amid the crowd to find, 
If I were blind ! 

If I were deaf, and thou hadst spoken 
Ere thy presence I had known, 

I should know it, 

I should feel it, 
Something subtle would reveal it, 



On we wandered for a while. 

Then the cornfield path we traced ; 

Evening shadows from the sky 
All its glowing tints had chased. 

All the ruddy petals gone. 

From the gathered poppies now; 

All the light of hope and joy 
Faded out from cheek and brow. 

For a question and reply. 

Those sad evening breezes bore — 

And I knew that side by side 
I We should wander nevermore. 

' S. J. Reilly. 

FLOWER. 

And the seal at once be broken 
By love's liquid undertone. 
And the world's discordant noises — 
Whisper, wheresoe'er thou art, 
'Twill reach thy heart. 

If I were dead and thou should venture 
Near the coffin where I lay, 

I should know it, 

I should feel it, 
Something subtle would reveal it. 
And no look of mildest censure 
Rest upon that face of clay. 
Shouldst thou kiss me, conscious flashes 
Of love's fire through death's cold ashes 
Would give back the cheek its red. 
If I were dead ! 



JAMIE'S ON THE SEA. 



' RE the twilight bat was flitting. 
In the sunset at her knitting, 
' Sang a lonely maiden, sitting 

Underneath her threshold tree. 



And as daylight died before us, 
.\nd the vesper star shone o'er us. 
Fitful rose her tender chorus, 
" Jamie's on the stormy sea." 



ALBUM OF LOVE. 



181 



SONG. 

OH ! never, no, never. 
Thou It meet me again ! 
Thv spirit for ever 

Has burst from its chain; 
The links thou hast broken 

Are all that remain. 
For never, oh ! never, 
Thou'lt meet mc again. 

Like the sound of the viol, 

1 hat dies on the blast ; 
Like the shade on the dial. 

Thy spirit has passed. 
The breezes blow round me, 

But give back no strain; 
The shade on the dial 

Returns not again. 

AVhere roses enshrined thee, 

In light trellised shade, 
Still hoping to find thee, 

How oft ha\e I strayed ! 
Thy desolate dwelling 

I traverse in vain ; — 
The stillness has whispered 

Thou'lt ne'er come again. 

Caroline Oliphant. 



"W 



WHEN YOUR BEAUTY APPEARS. 

HEN your beauty appears, 

In its graces and airs, 
All bright as an angel new dropt from 
the skies. 
At distance I gaze, and am awed by my fears, 
So strangely you dazzle my eyes ! 
But when without art 
Your kind thoughts you impart. 
When your love runs in blushes through every vein. 
When it darts from your eyes, when it pants 

at your heart, 
Then 1 know that you're woman again.' 

" There's a passion and pride 
In our sex," she replied ; 
"And thus (might I gratify both) I would do — 
Still an angel appear to each lover beside, 
But still be a woman for you." 

Thomas Parnell. 

SWEET, BE NOT PROUD. 

SWEET, be not proud of those two eyes, 
Which starlike sparkle in their skies ; 
Nor be you proud that you can see 
All hearts your captives, yours yet free. 
Be you not proud of that rich hair, 
Which wantons with the lovesick air; 
When as that ruby which you wear. 
Sunk from the tip of vour soft ear, 
Will last to be a ])recious stone 
When all your world of beautv's gone. 

Robert Herrick. 



T 



AN OLD LOVE= LETTER. 

H ROUGH her tears she gazed upon it, 
Record of that brief bright dream ! 

And she clasped it closer — closer — 
For a messa'je it would seem, 




Coming from the li|is now silent. 
Coming irom a hand now cold ; 

And she felt the same emotion 
It had thrilled her with of old. 

Mrs. J. C. Neal. 

DON'T MARRY A MAN "TO SAVE HIM." 

A CRY comes over from Oregon 
For a car-load of maidens, fully grown. 
All of them women of blood and tone- 
Come marry our men ■' to save them " 



182 



ALBUM OF LOVE. 



There are thousands here in these haunts of sin, 
Spending their money in gaming and gin, 
Corrupt without and corrupt within — 
Come marry these men " to save them." 

They liave each been somebody's pride and joy, 
Somebody's petted and pampered boy. 
Spoiled for Lick of a maiden coy — 

Come marry these men " to save them." 

You must be healthy, pure, and strong, 
Alike to breast and bear the wrong. 
Willing to carry a burden long — 

Come marry these men " to save them." 

You must be leader, but always seem 
To be gentle and helpless as love's young dream. 
And leaned upon when you seem to lean — 
Come marry these men " to save them." 

You must be cleanly, and kind, and sweet. 
Making a path for their godless feet 
Up to the grace of the mercy-seat — 

Come marry these men " to save them." 

Oh, woman, you are sold at a fearful price. 
If )0u wed your virtue to whisky and dice, 
And trust your soul to a den of vice — 
Don't marry a man " to save him." 

A life that is pure needs a pure one in turn, 
A being to honor, and not to spurn, 
An equal love, that shall constant burn — 
Don't marry a nian " to save him." 

A woman's life is a precious thing, 
Her love a rose unwithering ; 
Would you bury it deep in early spring. 
By marrying a man " to save him?" 

You can pray for his soul from morn till eve. 
You can wish the angels to bring reprieve 
To his sin-bound heart, but you'll always grice 
If you marry a man " to save him." 

God gives to woman a right to press 
Her claim to a man's best manliness. 
A woman gives all ; shall a man give less ? 
Don't marry a man " to save him." 

THE EMERALD RING. 

A SUPERsmiON. 

IT is a gem which hath the power to show 
If plighted lovers keep their faith or no; 
If faithful, it is like the leaves of spring; 
If faithless, like those leaves when withering. 
Take back again your emerald gem. 

There is no color in the stone; 
It might have graced a diadem. 

But now its hue and light are gone! 
Take back vour gift, and give me mine — • 
The kiss that sealed our last love-vow; 



Ah, other li|)s iiave been on thine — 
My kiss is lost and sullied now ! 

The gem is pale, the kiss forgot, 

And, more than either, you are changed ; 

But my true love has altered not, 
My heart is broken — not estranged ! 

Letitia E. L.\ndon. 

THE LOVE OF A MOTHER. 

WHO that has languished, even in advanced 
life, in sickness and despondency; who 
that has pined on a weary bed in the 
neglect and loneliness of a foreign 
land; but has thought on the mother "ihar 
looked on his childhood," that smoothed his pil- 
low and administered to his helplessness? Oh! 
there is an enduring tenderness in the love of a 
mother to a son that transcends all other affections 
of the heart. It is neither to be chilled by selfish- 
ness, nor daunted by danger, nor weakened by 
worthlessness, nor stiiled by ingratitude. 

She will sacrifice every comfort to his conveni- 
ence; she will surrender every i)leasure to his en- 
joyment; she will glory in his lanx and e.xult in 
his pros]>erity — and, if misfortune ovenake him, 
he will be the dearer to her from his misloriunes ; 
and if disgrace settle upon his name, she will still 
love and cherish him in spite of liis disgrace ; and 
if all the world beside cast him off, she will l,e all 
the world to him. 

Washington Irvim;. 

"O NANCY, WILT THOU GO WITH ME. ' 



o 



NANCY, wilt thou go with me, 

Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town ? 
Can silent glens have charms for thee. 
The lonely cot and russet gown ? 
No longer drest in silken sheen. 

No longer decked with jewels rare, 
Say, canst thou quit each courtly sceie 
VVhere thou wert fairest of the fair ? 

O Nancy I when thou 'rt far away. 

Wilt thou not cast a wish behind ? 
Say, canst thou face the parching ra' . 

Nor shrink before the wintry wind ? 
O, can that soft and gentle mien 

Extremes of hardship learn to bear, 
Nor sad regret each courtly scene 

Where thou wert fairest of the fair? 

O Nancy ! canst thou love so true. 

Through perils keen with me to go, 
Or when thy swain mishap shall rue. 

To share with him the pangs of woe ? 
Say, should disease or pain befall, 

Wilt thou assume the nurse's care, 
Nor wistful those gay scenes recall 

Where thou wert fairest of the fair? 



ALBUM OF LOVE. 



183 



And when at last thy love shall die, 

Wilt tliou receive his jjarting breath ? 
Wilt tliou repress each struggling sigh. 

And cheer with smiles the bed of death ? 
And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay, 

Strew flowers and drop the tender tear. 
Nor then regret those scenes so gay 

Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? 

Thomas Percy. 

LOVE DISSEMBLED. 



THINK not I love him, though I ask for 
him ; 
'T is but a peevish bov : — yet he talks 
well ;— 
But what care I for words ? — yet words do 

well. 
When he that speaks them pleases those that 

hear. 
But, sure, he's proud ; and yet his pride be- 
comes him : 
He '11 make a proper man : The best thing 

in him 
Is his complexion ; and faster than his 

tongue 
Did make offence, his eye did heal it up. 
He is not very tall ; yet for his years he's 

tall; 
His leg is but so so ; and yet 't is well : 
There was a pretty redness in his lip, 
.A. little riper and more lusty red 
Than that mixed in his cheek ; 'twas juit 

the difference 
Betwixt the constant red, and mingled 

damask. 



There be some women, Silvius, had they 

marked him 
In parcels, as I did, would have gone near 
To fall in love with him : but, for my part, 
I love him not, nor hate him not ; and yet 
I have more cause to hate him than to love him: 
For what had he to do to chide at me ? 
He said mine eyes were black, and my hair black ; 
And, now I am remembered, scorned at me : 
I marvel, why I answered not again : 
But that's all one; omittance is no quittance. 
William Shakespeare. 

A WOMAN'S QUESTION. 

BEFORE I trust my fate to thee, 
Or place my hand in thine, 
Before I let thy future give 
Color and form to mine. 
Before I peril all for thee, 
Question thy soul to night for me. 

I break all slighter bonds, nor feel 

A shadow of regret : 
Is there one link within the past 

That holds thy spirit yet ? 



Or is thy faith as clear and free 

As that which I can pledge to thee? 

Does there within thy dimmest dreams 

A possible future shine. 
Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe 

Untouched, unshared by mine? 
If so, at any pain or cost, 
O, tell me before all is lost ! 




Look deeper still : if thou canst feel 

Within thy inmost soul. 
That thou hast kept a portion back. 

While I have staked the whole, 
Let no false pity spare the blow, 
But in true mercy tell me so. 

Is there within thy heart a need 

That mine cannot fulfill? 
One chord that any other hand 

Could better wake or still ? 
Speak now, lest at some future day 
My whole life wither and decay. 

Lives there within thy nature hid 

The demon-spirit, change. 
Shedding a passing glory still 

On all things new and strange ? 
It may not be thy fault alone — 
But shield my heart against thine own. 

Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day 
And answer to my claim, 



184 



ALBUM OF LOVE 



That fate, and that to-day's mistake- 
Not thou — had been to blame ! 
Some soothe their conscience thus; but thou 
Wilt surely warn and save me now. 

Nay, answer not — I dare not hear, 
The words would come too late; 

Yet I would spare thee all remorse. 
So comfort thee, my fate : 

Whatever on my heart may fall. 

Remember, I u^oiild risk it all ! 

Adelaide Anne Procter. 



T 



THE KNIGHT'S TOAST. 

HE feast is o'er ! Now brimming wine 
In lordly cup is seen to shine 
Before each eager guest ; 
And silence fills the crowaed hall. 
As deep as when the herald's call 
Thrills in the loyal breast. 

Then up arose the noble host, 

And, smiling, cried; "A toast ! a toast ! 

To all our ladies fair ! 
Here, before all, I pledge the name 
Of Staunton's proud and beauteous dame — 

The Lady Gundamere !" 

Then to his feet each gallant sprung, 
And joyous was the shout that rung, 

As Stanley gave the word ; 
And fevery cup was raised on high, 
Nor ceased the loud and gladsome cry, 

Till Stanle\''s voice was heard. 

" Enough, enough," he smiling said, 
And lowly bent his haughty head ; 

" That all may have their due. 
Now each, in turn, must play his part. 
And pledge the lady of his heart, 
Like gallant knight and true I" 

Then, one by one, each guest sprang up, 
And drained in turn the brimming cup, 

And named the loved one's name; 
And each, as hand on high he raised, 
His lady's grace or beauty praised, 

Her constancy and fame. 

'Tis now St. Leon's turn to rise; 

On him are fixed those countless eyes ; 

A gallant knight is he; 
Envied by some, admired by all. 
Far famed in lady's bower, and hall — 

The flower of chivalry. 

St. Leon raised his kindling eye. 
And lifts the sparkling cup on high; 

" I drink to one,'" he said, 
" Whose image never may depart, 
Deep gra\'en on this grateful heart. 

Till memory be dead. 



" To one whose love for me shall last 

When lighter passions long have passed — 

So holy 'tis and true; 
To one whose love hath longer dwelt, 
More deeply fixed, more keenly felt. 
Than any pledged by you." 

Each guest upstarted at the word, 
And laid a hand upon his sw^rd, 

With fury-flashing eye; 
And Stanley said : " We crave the name, 
Proud knight, of this most peerless dame. 

Whose love you count so high." 

St. Leon paused, as if he would 

Not breathe her name in careless mood. 

Thus lightly, to another; 
Then bent his noble head, as though 
To give that word the reverence due. 

And gently said, " My mother !" 



L 



I 



LOVE IS A SICKNESS. 

OVE is a sickness full of woes, 
All remedies refusing; 
A plant that most with cutting grows, 
Klost barren with best using. 
Why so? 
More we enjoy it, more it dies ; 
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries 
Heigh-ho ! 

Love is a torment of the mind, 

A tempest everlasting ; 
And Jove hath made it of a kind, 
Not well, nor fiill, nor fasting. 
Why so? 
More we enjoy it, more it dies; 
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries 

Heigh-ho! Samuel Daniel. 

GRAY AND SILVER. 

HAD a love ; dark-haired was she, 

Her eyes w ere gray. 
For sake of her across the sea 

I sailed away. 

Death, sickness, tempest and defeat 

All passed me by ; 
With years came fortune, fair and fleet, 

And rich was I. 

Again for me the sun looked down 

Familiar skies ; 
I found my love, her locks had grown 

Gray as her eyes. 

" Alas !" she sighed, " forget me, now 

No longer fair." 
"I loved thy heart," I whispered low, 

"And not thy hair." 

C. E. D. Phelps. 




LOVE'S ENTREATY. 



185 



186 



ALBUM OF LOVE. 



LET NOT WOMAN E'ER COMPLAIN. 

LET not woman e'er complain 
Of inconstancy in love; 
Let not woman e'er complain 
Fickle man is apt to rove ; 
Look abroad through nature's range, 




MY OWN. 

I CANNOT call thee beautiful, 
I cannot call thee fair, 
Give praise unbounded to thine e)es, 
The color of thy hair, 
Pronounce thy form a Hebe's, 

Thy voice of matchless tone; 
But know thou art a woman. 
And lovable, my own. 

I cannot call thee other 

Than what thou art, for though 
I felt disposed to flatter thee. 

Thou wouldst not have it so; 
Thy charms are no divinity's — 

Humanity alone 
Hath multiplied the gifts that 
make 

Thee lovable, my own. 

But if tliou be not beautiful. 

And if thou be not fair, 
The loving heart thy bosom 
shields. 

And all the goodness there, 
First won my admiration, 

And truly have 1 grown 
To know that more than beauty 
makes 

Thee lovable, my own. 

Let others measure happiness 

By charms that please the e)e; 
I sought for gifts more lasting 

Than beauty, therefore I, 
In seeking found thee,and thou art 

(No queen on beauty's throne) 
A woman only, to be loved 

As I lo\ e thee, my own. 

DoKA K. Freanev 

KISSING HER HAIR. 



K' 



Nature's mighty law is change ; 
Ladies, would it not be strange 

Man should then a monster ])rove? 

Mark the winds, and mark the skies; 

Ocean's ebb and ocean's flow ; 
Sun and moon but set to rise. 

Round and round the seasons go 
Why then ask of silly man, 
To oppose great nature's plan ? 
We'll be constant while we can — 

You can be no more, you know. 

Robert Burns. 



ISSING her hair, I sat 

against her feet : 

Wove and unwove it — 

wound, and found it 

sweet : 

Made fast therewith her hands, drew down her 

eyes. 
Deep as deep flowers, and dreamy like dim skies ; 
With her own tresses bound, and found her fair — 
Kissing h- r hair 

Sleep were no sweeter than her face to me — 
Sleep of cold sea-bloom under the cold sea : 
What pain could get between my face and hers? 
What new sweet thing would love not relish worse? 
Unless, perhaps, white death had kissed me tliere — 
Kissing her hair. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne. 



ALBUM OF LOVE. 



187 




WHEN THOU ART NEAR ME. 



w 



HEN thou art near me, 

Sorrow seems to fly. 
And when 1 think, as well I may. 
That on this earth there is no one 
More blest than I. 



But when thou leavest me, 
Doubts and fears arise, 

And darkness reigns. 

Where all before was light. 

The sunshine of ray soul 
Is in those eyes, 



And when they leave me, 
All the world is night. 

When thou art near me, 

Beauty lights my sky, 
The earth is glad, and tells me 
That neither king nor peasant 

Is so blest as I. 

And when thou art near me, 

Sorrow seems to flv. 
And then I feel, as well I may, 
That on the earth there dwells not one 

So blest as I. Lady Tane Scott. 



188 



ALBUM OF LOVE. 



REUBEN AND ROSE; 



A TALE OF ROMANCE. 







'^; 



HE darkness that hung upon Willumberg's walls 

Had long been remembered with awe and dismay ; 
For years not a sunbeam had played in its halls, 
And it seemed as shut out from the regions of day. 

Tl'Ough the valleys were brightened by many a beam. 
Vet none could the woods of that castle illume; 

And the lightning, which flashed on the neighboring stream, 
Flew back, as if fearing to enter the gloom ! 

•' Oh ! when shall this horrible darkness disperse!" 
Said Willumberg's lord to the Seer of the Cave; — 

" It can never dispel," said the wizard of verse, 

" Till the bright star of chivalry sinks in the wave ! " 

And who was the bright star of chivalry then? 

Who cculd be but Reuben, the flower of the age? 
For Reuben was first in the combat of men. 

Though youth had scarce written his name on her page. 

For Willumberg's daughter his young heart had beat — 
For Rose, who was bright as the spirit of dawn. 

When with wand dropping diamonds, and silvery feet. 
It walks o'er the flowers of the mountain and lawn. 



Must Rose, then, from Reuben so fatally sever? 

Sad, sad were the words of the Seer of the 
Cave, 
That darkness should cover that castle forever, 

Or Reuben be sunk in the mercile>s wave ! 

To the wizard she flew, saying, " Tell me, oh, tell ! 
Shall my Reuben no more be restored to my 
eyes? ' 
'•Yes, yes — when a spirit shall toll the great bell 
Of the mouldering abbev, vour Reuben shall 
rir:e!" 

Twice, thrice he repeated, "Your Reuben shall 
rise ! " 
And Rose felt a moment's release from her pain; 
And wiped, while she listened, the tears from her 
exes, 
And hoped she might yet see her hero again. 

That hero could smile at the terrors of death, 
\Vhen he felt that he died for the sire of his 
Rose, 
To the Oder he flew, and there, plunging beneath. 
In the depth of the billows soon found his re- 
pose. 

How strangely the order of destinv falls ! — 

Not long in the waters the warrior lay. 
When a simbeam was seen to glance over the 
walls. 
And the castle of Willumberg basked in the 
ray. 



All, all but the soul of the maid was in light. 
There sorrow and terror lay gloomy and blank ; 

Two days did she wander, and all the long 
night. 
In quest of her love, on the wide river's bank. 

Oft, oft did she pause for the toll of the bell, 
And heard but the breathings of night in the 
air; 

Long, long did she gaze on the watery swell, 
And saw but the foam of the white billow there. 

And often as midnight its veil would undraw, 
As she looked at the light of the moon in the 
stream. 
She thought 'twas his helmet of silver she saw. 
As the curl of the surge gl'tterfd high in the 
beam. 

And now the third night was begemming the 
sky; 
Poor Rose, on the cold dewy margent reclined, 
There wept till the tear almost froze in ner eye. 
When — hark ! — 'twas the bell that came deep in 
the wind ! 

She startled, and saw, through the glimmering 
shade, 
A form o'er the waters in majesty glide ; 
She knew 'twas her love, though his cheek was 
decayed. 
And his helmet of silver was washed by the 
tide. 



ALBUM OF LOVE. 



189 



Was this what the Seer of the Cave had foretold? — 
Dim, dim, through the phantom the moon shot 
a gleam, 

'Twas Reuben, but, ah ! he was deathly and cold, 
And fleeted away like the spell of a dream 1 

Twice, thrice did he rise, and as often she thought 
From the bank to embrace him, but vain her 
endeavor, 
Then, plunging beneath, at a billow she caught. 
And sunk to repose on its bosom forever ! 

Thomas Moore. 

LOVE'S FORGOTTEN PROMISE. 

iiT WILL come back," Love cried; "I will 
I come back," 

*■ And there where he had passed lay one 
bright track, 
Dreamlike and golden as the moonlit sea. 
Between the pine woods' shadow, tall and black, 
" I will come back !" Love cried. Ah, me ! 
Love will come back. 

He will come back. Yet, Love, I wait, I wait, 
Though it is evening now, and cold and late, 

And I am weary watching here so long, 
A pale, sad watcher at a silent gate — 

For love, who is so fair and swift and strong, 
I wait, I wait. 

He will come back — come back, though he delays; 
He will come back — for in old years and days 

He was my playmate. He will not forget. 
Though he may linger long amid new ways. 

He will bring back, with barren sweet regret, 
Old years and days. 

Hush ! on the lonely hills Love comes again ; 
But his young feet are marked with many a stain. 

The golden haze has passed from his fair brow. 
And round him clings the blood-red robe of pain ; 

And it is night. O Love — Love — enter now ! 
Remain ! remain ! 

HER SHADOW. 

BENDING between me and the taper, 
While o'er the harp her white hands 
strayed. 
The shadows of her waving tresses 
Above my hand were gently swayed. 

With every graceful movement waving, 

I marked their undulating swell ; 
I watched them while they met and parted, 

Curled close or widened, rose or fell. 

I laughed in triumph and in pleasure — 
So strange the sport, so undesigned ! 

Her mother turned and asked me, gravely, 
"What thought was passing through my mind?" 



'Tis love that blinds the eyes of mothers; 

'Tis love that makes the young maids fair! 
She touched my hand ; my rings she counted ; 

Yet never felt the shadows there. 

Keep, gamesome love, beloved infant, 
Keep ever thus all mothers blind ; 

And make thy dedicated virgins 
In substance as in shadow, kind ! 

Aubrey De Vere. 



FOUND AT LAST. 

[N each man's soul there lives a dream 
Lit by a woman's eyes, 
Whose glance is like the tender gleam 

That thrills the evening skies. 
It is a dream that never faints, 
Though weal or woe befalls ; 
But haunts the heart and softly paints 
A picture on its walls. 

In each man's heart there floats a voice 

That speaks to him alone. 
The voice of her, his spirit's choice. 

He longs to call his own 
The days may hasten like the wind. 

Or lag with sullen feet ; 
Some day his wandering heart shall find 

The face he longs to meet. 

Samuel M. Peck. 

WAITING NEAR. 

ALTHOUGH I enter not. 
Yet round about the spot 
Ofttimes I hover ; 
And near the sacred gate 
With longing eyes I wait, 
Expectant of her. 

My lady comes at last. 
Timid, and stepping fast, 

And hastening hither. 
With modest eyes downcast ; 
She comes — she's here -she's past — 

May heaven go with her. 

Kneel, undisturbed, fair saint : 
Pour out your praise or plaint 

Meekly and duly ; 
I will not enter there. 
To sully your pure prayer 

With thoights unruly. 

But suffer me to pace 
Round the forbidden place, 

Lingering a minute 
Like outcast spirits who wait. 
And see through heaven's gate 

Angels within it. 

W. M. Thackeray. 



190 



ALBUM OF LOVE. 




IT is the miller's daughter, 
And she is grown so dear, so dear, 
That I would be the jewel 

That trembles in her ear ; 
For, hid in ringlets day and night, 
I'd touch her neck so warm and white. 

And I would be the girdle 

About her dainty, dainty waist, 

And her heart would beat against me 
In sorrow and in rest ; 

And I should know if it beat right, 

I'd clasp it round so close and tight. 

And I would be the necklace, 

And all day long to fall and rise 

Upon her balmy bosom, 

With her laughter and her sighs ; 

And I would lie so light, so light 

I scarce should be unclasped at night. 
Alfred Tennyson. 



MY CHOICE. 



SHALL I tell you whom I love? 
Hearken then awhile to me ; 
And if such a woman move 
As I now shall versify. 
Be assured 'tis slie or none, 
That I love, and love alone. 

Nature did her so much right 
As she scorns the help of art. 

In as many virtues dight 

As e'er yet embraced a heart. 

So much good so truly tried, 

Some for less were deified 

Wit she hath, without desire 

To make known how much she hath ; 
And her anger flames no higher 



Than may fitly sweeten wrath. 
Full of pity as may be, 
Though perhaps not so to me. 

Reason masters every sense, 

And her virtues grace her birth ; 

Lovely as all excellence. 

Modest in her most of mirth. 

Likelihood enough to prove 

Only worth could kindle love. 

Such she is ; and if you know 

Such a one as I have sung ; 
Be she brown, or fair, or so 

That she be but somewhat young ; 
Be assured 'tis she, or none. 
That I love, and love alone 

William Browne. 



ALBUM OF LOVE. 



191 



H 



THE AQE OF WISDOM. 

O! pretty page, with the dimjiled chin, 
That never has known the barber's shear, 
All your wish is woman to win ; 
This is the way that boys begin — 
Wait till you come to forty year. 

Curly gold locks cover foolish brains ; 

Billing and cooing is all your cheer — 
Sighing, and singing of midnight strains, 
Under Bonnybell's window-panes — 

Wait till you come to forty year. 

Forty times over let Michaelmas pass; 

Grizzling hair the brain doth clear ; 
Then you know a boy is an ass, 
Then you know the worth of a lass — 

Once you have come to forty year. 

Pledge me round ; I bid ye declare, 

All good fellows whose beards are gray — 

Did not the fairest of the fair 

Common grow and wearisome ere 
Ever a month was past away ? 

The reddest lips that ever have kissed, 

The brightest eyes tliat ever have shone, 
May pray and whisper ar.d we not list. 
Or look away and never be missed — 
Ere yet ever a month is gone. 

Gillian s dead ! God rest her bier — 
How I loved her twenty years sine — 

Marian's married ; but I sit here. 

Alone and merry at forty year, 

Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine. 

W. M Thackeray. 



AH! WHAT IS LOVE? 

AH ! what is love? It is a pretty thing, 
As sweet unto a shepherd as a king. 
And sweeter too ; 
For kings have cares that wait upon a crown, 
And cares can make the sweetest face to frown ; 

Ah then, ah then. 
If country loves such sweet desires gain. 
What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? 

His flocks are folded ; he comes home at night 
As merry as a king in his delight, 

And merrier, too ; 
For kings bethink them what the state require. 
Where shepherds, careless, carol by the fire ; 

Ah then, ah then. 
If country loves such sweet desires gain, 
What lady would not love a sheplierd swain ? 

He kisseth first, then sits as blithe to eat 

His cream and curd as doth the king his meat, 

And blither, too ; 
For kings have often fears when they sup, 
Where shepherds dread no poison in their cup; 

Ah then, ah then, 



If country loves such sweet desires gain, 
What lady would not love a sliepherd swain ? 

Upon his couch of straw he sleeps as sound 
As doth the king upon his beds of down. 

More sounder, too ; 
For cares cause kings full oft their sleep to spill, 
Where weary shepherds lie and snort their fill; 

Ah then, ah then, 
If country loves such sweet desires gain, 
What lady would not love a shepherd swain? 




'-'.^j^rs 



y 



J/1 ^- 



Thus with his wife he spends the year as blithe 
As doth the king at every tide or syth. 

And blither, too ; 
For kings have wars and broils to take in hand, 
When shepherds laugh, and love upon the land; 

Ah then, ah then, 
If country loves such sweet desires gain. 
What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? 

Robert Greene. 

TELL ME, MY HEART, IF THIS BE LOVE. 

HEN Delia on the plain appears. 
Awed by a thousand tender fears, 
I would approach, but dare not move; — 
Tell me, my, heart, if this be love. 



w 



Whene'er she speaks, my ravished ear 
No other voice than hers can hear ; 
No other wit but hers approve , — 
Tell me, my heart, if this be love. 

If she some other swain commend, 
Though I was once his fondest friend. 
His instant enemy I prove ; — 
Tell me, my heart, if this be love. 



192 



ALBUM OF LOVE. 



When she is absent, I no more 
Delight in all that pleased before. 
The clearest spring, the shadiest grove ; — 
Tell me, my heart, if this be love, 

When fond of power, of beauty vain, 
Her nets she spread for every swain, 
I strove to hate, but vainly strove ; — 
Tell me, my heart, if this be love. 

George Lord Lvttelton. 

BROKEN HEARTS. 

SHALL I confess it?— I believe in broken 
hearts, and the possibility of dying of dis- 
appointed love. I do not, however, con- 
sider it a malady often fatal to my own sex ; 
but I firmh- believe that it withers down many a 
lovely woman into an early grave 



Look for her, after a little while, and you will 
find friendship weeping over her untimely grave, 
and wondering that one who but lately glowed 
with all the radiance of health and beauty, should 
so speedily be brought down to " darkness and 
the worm." You will be told of some wintry 
chill, some casual indisposition that laid her low 
— but no one knows of the mental malady that 
previously sajjped her strength, and made her so 
easy a prey to the spoiler. 

She is like some tender tree, the pride and beauty 
of the grove; graceful in its form, bright in its 
foliage, but with the worm preying at its heart. 
We find it suddenly withering when it should be 
most fresh and luxuriant. We see it drooping its 
branches to the earth and shedding leaf by leaf; 
until, wasted and perished away, it falls even in 




-^. . ..^.. ^ 



How many bright eyes grow dim — liow many 
soft cheeks grow pale — how many lovely forms 
fade away into the tomb, and none can tell the 
cause that blighted their loveliness ! As the dove 
will clasp its wings to its side, and cover and con- 
ceal the arrow tiiat is preying on its vitals, so it is 
the nature of woman to hide from the world the 
pangs of wounded affection. The love of a deli- 
•cate female is always shy and silent. Even when 
fortunate, she scarcely breathes it to herself ; but 
■when otherwise, she buries it in the recesses of 
her bosom, and there lets it cower and brood 
among the ruins of her peace. 

With her the desire of the heart has failed. The 
great charm of existence is at an end. She neg- 
lects all the cheerful exercises which gladden the 
spirits, quicken the pulses, and send the tide of 
life in healthful currents through the veins. Her 
rest is broken — the sweet refreshment of sleep is 
poisoned by melancholy dreams — "dry sorrow 
drinks her blood," until her enfeebled frame sinks 
under the slighted external injury. 



the stillness of the lorest ; and as we muse over 
the beautiful ruin, we strive in vain to recollect 
the blast or thunderbolt that could have smitten it 
with decay. Washington Irving. 

WHY. 

THERE'S a little rustic seat 
Just beneath the hill-top's brow, 
Bowered with meadow-grasses sweet 
And with many a fragrant bough; 
And on sunny summer days, 

There a lassie oft I see, 

With a far-off dreamy gaze 

As of deep e.xpcctancy. 

Shall I tell you why she lingers? 

This is why ! this is why ! 
Though she knows it not, she's waiting 
For young love to wander by ! 

Ere the summer's colors pass 

Into autumn's deeper hues. 
Ere the trees and flowers and grass 

Young-year strength and freshness lose. 



ALBUM OF LOVE. 



193 



On that little rustic seat 

Lass and lad I'm sure to see, 
In companionship so sweet 

They've no eyes or thought for me ! 
Shall I tell you why 'tis so? 
This is whv ! this is why ! 
Love the master, love the tyrant, 
He at length has wandered by ! 

HE THAT LOVES A ROSY CHEEK. 



HE that loves a rosy cheek, 
Or a coral lip admires, 
Or from starlight eyes doth seek 
Fuel to maintain his fires; 
As old Time makes these decay, 
So his flames must waste away. 

But a smooth and steadfast mind, 
Gentle thoughts, and calm desires, 

Hearts with equal love combined, 
Kindle never-dying fires : — 

^Vhere these are not, I despise 

Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes. 

Thomas Carew. 



THE SHEPHERD'S RESOLUTION. 

SHALL I, wasting in despair. 
Die because a woman's fair? 
Or make pale my cheeks with care 
'Cause another's rosy are? 
Be she fairer than the day, 
Or the flowery meads in May, 
If she be not so to me, 
What care I how fair she be ? 

'Cause her fortune seems too high, 
Shall I play the fool and die? 
Those that bear a noble mind 
Where they want of riches find, 
Think what with them they would do 
That without them dare to woo ; 
And unless that mind I see, 
What care I hosv great she be ? 

Great, or good, or kind, or fair, 

I will ne'er the more despair : 

If she love me, this believe — 

I will die ere she shall grieve, 

If she slight me when I woo, 

I can scorn and let her go ; 
For if she be not for me, 
What care I for whom she be ? 

George Wither. 



My second, he was gaunt and thin, 
All round the hemispheres he'd been ; 
He'd shot at lions, killed a bear; 
J loved him for about a year. 

My third had flowing coal-black locks, 
(I wore then green and yellow frocks). 
He pla\ed and sang my heart awa\' ; 
I loved him one year and a day. 

My fourth was handsome, but so poor ! 
That only made me love him more ; 
I wept and sighed, but had to part, 
It almost, almost broke my heart. 




My fifth was — well, I cannot say 
What he was like ; but one fine day 
I swore to love him all my life ; 
And now he calls me "little wife." 

My sixth ? My sixtli is very small, 
He hardly seems a man at all ; 
But, O, I could not bear to part. 
With either fifth or sixth sweetheart. 

LOVE NOT ME FOR COMELY GRACE. 

LOVE not me for comely grace, 
For my pleasing eye or face. 
Nor for any outward part, 
No, nor for my constant heart ; 
For those may fail or turn to ill. 
So thou and I shall sever ; 
Keep therefore a true woman's eye, 
And love me still, but know not why. 
So hast thou the same reason still 
To dote upon me ever. 



N 



M 



MY SWEETHEARTS. 

V first was young and very fair, 
With bright blue eyes and yellow hair ; 
A surplice white in church he wore ; 
I loved him for a month or more. 
13 



TO HELEN IN A HUFF. 

AY, lady, one frown is enough 
In a life as soon over as this — 
And though minutes seem long in a huff, 
They're minutes 'tis pity to miss ! 
The smiles you imprison so lightly 

Are reckoned, like days in eclipse ; 
And though you may smile again brightly, 
You've lost so much light from your lips! 
Pray, lady, smile ! 

The cup that is longest untasted 
May be with our bliss running o'er. 



194 



ALBUM OF LOVE. 



And, love when we will, we have wasted 
An age in not loving before ! 

Perchance Cupid's forging a fetter 
To tie us together some day, 



And, just for the chance, we had better 
Be laying up love, I should say ! 
Nay, ladv, smile ! 

N. P. Willis. 



JEALOUSY. 



I 



HAVE thy love — I know no fear 

Of that divine possession ; 
Yet dravv more close, and thou shalt h^ar 

A ie:iloiN lieavt'-; roiifp^^ion. 



I am so much a miser grown. 
That I could wish to hide thee, 

Wht-re never breath but mine alone 
Could drink delight beside thee. 




I nurse no pang, lest fairer youth 
Of loftier hopes should win thee ; 

There blows no wind to chill the truth, 
Whose amaranth blooms within thee. 

Un«orthier thee if I could grow 
(The love that lured thee jjerished), 

Thy woman heart could ne'er forego 
The earliest dream it cherished. 

I do not think that doubt and love 
Are one— whate'er tlney tell us; 

Yet — nay — lift not thy looks above, 
A star can make me jealous. 

If thou art mine, all mine at last, 

I covet so the treasure, 
No srlance that thou canst elsewhere cast, 

But robs me of a pleasure. 



Then say not, with that soothing air, 

I have no rival nigh thee ; 
The sunbeam lingering in thy hair — 

The breeze that trembles by thee — 

The very herb beneath thy feet — 
The rose whose odors woo thee — 

In all things, rivals he must meet. 
Who would be all things to thee ! 

If sunlight from the dial be 
But for one moment banished. 

Turn to the silenced plate and see 
The hours themselves are vanished. 

In aught that from me lures thine eyes, 

My jealousy has trial ; 
The- lightest cloud across the skies 

Has darkness for the dial. 

E. BuLWER Lyiton. 



ALBUM OF ZCr/Zi. 



195 



FOR LOVE'S SAKE. 

IF thou must love me, let it be for naught 
Except for love's sake only. Do not saj', 
"I love her for her smile, her look, her way 
Of speaking gently — -for a trick of thought 
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought 
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day." 
For these things in themselves, beloved, may 
Be changed, or change for thee — and love so 

wrought. 
May be unvvrought so. Neither love me for 

Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry — 
A creature might forget to wee]), who bore 

Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby. 
But love me for love's sake, that evermore 
Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity. 
Elizabeth B. Browning. 

JENNY'S KISS. 

JENNY kissed me when we met. 
Jumping from the chair she sat in ; 
Time, you thief! who love to get 
Sweets into your list, put that in : 
Say Fm weary, say Fm sad. 

Say that health and wealth have missed me. 
Say Fm growing old, but add, 
Jenny kissed me. 

Leigh Hunt. 

SATISFACTORY CHAPERONAQE. 

I ROWED with Doris in my boat 
Far from the city's noise ; 
And found a pleasant spot to float 
Where leaves and lilies poise 
Upon the little waves that creep 
To rock the drowsy birds to sleep. 

We talked, but we were not alone 
Which seemed to disconcert us; 

Aunt Josie was our chaperon, 
But little did she hurt us. 

For when I looked, I found her deep 

In calm, unchaperoning sleep. 

The chance was far too good to miss, 

And, Doris being willing, 
I backward leaned and took a kiss 

That set my pulses thrilling ; 
When lo ! I saw Aunt Josie ])eep ; 
The wretch had only feigned her sleep ! 

But Doris sat with downcast eyes 
Nor dreamed we were discovered. 

While just a hint of mild surprise 
O'er Aunty Jo's face hovered; 

And then she winked to show she'd keep 

My secret, and again feigned slee]i I 

Ellis P. Butler. 



GILBERT \ND AMETHYSTA. 



"O 



SUN ! awakener of care. 

Withhold thy dawning light; 
O moon ! the lover's [ilanet fair. 
Prolong the hours of night I " 
Thus prays the passion-stricken boy, 

Extravagant and fond : 
The maid as loving, but more coy, 

Would willing respond — 
"How fast the moments fade away ! 
Oh, how unwelcome is the day I " 
But lest her speech might seem too bold, 
She leaves the loving thought untold. 

At length, upon a flowery bank, 

O'ercanopied by leafy arches. 
Formed by the intertwining boughs 

Of fragrant chestnut-trees and larches. 
They sit ; the nightingale the while 

Singing, as if from every feather 
In all its frame it poured the notes; 

And thus the pair discourse together: 

"Old stories tell that men are fickle, 

False and fickle every one. 
And that love by guile untainted 

Never dwelt beneath the sun. 
Great in sorrow, strong in danger. 

Must his pure affection prove. 
Who would hope to win for ever 

Maiden's passion, woman's love." 

" O Amethysta, best beloved I 

Since first thine eyes upon me shone, 
My soul has had no other joy 

Than love of thee, and thee alone ; 
No other passion shall it own; 

And be the doubt for ever far I 
Thee at my side, whate'er betide, 

In vain the envious world shall war ; 
I'll love thee still, 
Through good, through ill, 

My light, my life, my guiding star ! " 

" And couldst thou, Gilbert, for my sake 
Endure the freezing looks of scorn ? 

If slander's tongue should do me wrong. 
And pride should call me lowly-born, 

Wouldst thou, as now, repeat thy vow, 
Nor prove for vanity forsworn? " 

"Ah, never ! Envy may defame. 

And men may censure if they will ; 
Thy virtue shall disprove their blame. 
And Gilbert will adore thee still. 
No rancorous tongue shall work thee ill ; 
And pride it-elf, O maiden mine, 
Shall bow to worth so high as thine ; 
And envy with a sigh confess 
Th.' least of charms — thy loveliness." 



196 



ALBUM OF LOVE. 



" And couldst thon (oh, forgive the lear — 

Fond as a woman's fear should be !) — 
Couldst thou endure, not scorn alone. 

But scorn and poverty for me? 
Couldst thou, for Amethysta's sake, 

Renounce the honors, thine by birth — 
The wealth, the titles, and the power. 

And all that men most prize on earth ; 
And dwell in our secluded cot. 
By all thy former friends forgot, 
And never chide me, or repine 
T hat I consented to be thine? " 

"No, Amethysta! poor the heart 

That veers as fortune's currents blow; 
And mine shall be a nobler part — 

My true affection shall not know 
Change or decrease, or ever cease 

To prize thee best of all below. 
Love, like the beacon on the sea 

That warns the tempest-beaten bark, 
Still shines, if true, like mine for thee. 

The brightest when the sky is dark ! " 

Thus as they speak his fingers play 

Amid her soft luxuriant tresses. 
Their cheeks with mutual blushes burn. 

Their tender eyes exchange caresses. 
So gentle is the night of May, 
So much the lovers have to say. 
They never heed the flight of time; 

And it is far towards tlie hour 
When sounds the matin chime. 

Ere from their sheltering forest bower, 
And bank with early flowers bestrewn. 
They rise and think they rise too soon. 
And see the modest eastern sky 
Blushing because the morn draws nigh, 
And hear the woods and welkin ringing 
With the sweet song the lark is singing. 

"Oh, light the touch of time has been, 

And flowers his hand has carried, 
Or thus all night in forests green 

Our feet would not have tarried. 
We have outwatched the moon, my love. 

And all the stars but one : 
There is no need that we should part 

For rising of the sun. 
The air so full of odors sweet, 

The breeze-encircled hill, 
The music of the early birds, 
And thy sweet looks and sweeter words, 

Tnvite to linger still." 
The maid looked up into his face 

With eyes he thought that dimmed the 
day, 
And the reply upon her lips 

Melted in happy smiles away. 

Charles Mackay. 



I 



LOVE THOU THE BEST. 

DO not say that thou shouldst never change ; 
Only let not thy wandering fancy range 
To waste itself in follies unrepressed ; 
Love me, or else at least, love thou the best. 

Thy love for me how often hast declared ! 
Thine inmost soul before my vision bared ! 
I know thy fervent fondness, yet the praise 
Of lesser loves doth light thy lonely days. 

Oh, listen, love, and to my words pray heed ; 
If ever thou shouldst feel thy spirit's need 
More fully satisfied, or understood, 
More quenched in evil, spurred to all things good. 

By newer love, think not of plighted truth, 
Think never of those hot, wild vows of youth , 
Fling off old bonds, each tie and promise 

break 
Not for thy senses', but thy spirit's sake. 

Though I should weep, yet through my tears I'd see 
Such faithfulness more fine than constancy ; 
Through breaking heart and lonely life unblessed 
I'd still rejoice that thou shouldst love the best. 

LOVE AND JEALOUSY. 

A SWEET little voice comes ringing 
From a cottage over the way ; 
'Tis a fair little maiden singirg 
The whole of the livelong day. 
And this is her song, I hear her 

A-lilling it o'er and o'er — 
" When jealousy creeps in the window, 
Then love flies ou: at the door." 

"With little of wealth to squander 

True love will be satisfied ; 
And never an envious murmur. 

When luxury is denied. 
But list to these words of warning, 

And your heart will never be sore ; 
When jealousy creeps in the window, 

Then love flies out at the door. 

Chorus — ' ' Oh love flies out at the door. 
Oh love flies out at the door ; 
When jealousy creeps in the window, 
Then love flies out at the door." 

Mary Ingram Mattis. 

TO THE END. 

AS the wings of an angel might guard, as the 
hands of a mother might cherish, 
So have I loved you, mine own, though 
hope and though faith should perish ; 
And my will is set to hold you yet, close hid in 

my deep heart's centre, 
In a secret shrine that none may divine, where no 
one but I may enter. 



When the stars shine dimly and wan, when the 
leaves on the pane are fretting. 

When the mist has blotted the world in a dull and 
a dread forgetting, 

Over the hill where the uind blows chill, over th.e 
wintry hollows. 



ALBUM OF LOVE. 

LEGEND OF A COQUET. 



197 



'T^IS s, 
A Its 



said that when Dan Cupid aims his 
arrow, 
olden point ne'er tail, to find the 
mark ; 




A wild voice calls, on my sleet it falls, and my 
spirit awakes and follows. 

Call, and I come through the night, though the 
mist and the darkness may hide you. 

Weary and desolate heart, my place is surely be- 
side yon. 

From the depth of your black despair, come back, 
mv arm shall be strong to move you, 

To bear you up to the golden gates of heaven, be- 
cause I love you. 



Lut once, at least, his victim's charms unnerved 
him. 
Or else he aimed at Bessie in the dark. 

For in her trembling cheek the frail shaft quiv- 
ered. 
Till, pitying, grieved at his unwitting sin. 
Kissing, he healed the wound, withdrew the ar- 
row. 
Leaving a dimple where the barb had been. 



198 



ALBUM OF LOVE. 



And in the dimple where its point had rested 
The wondrous arrow left its fabled power; 

But Ciipid, fearing lest again he harm her, 
Has never dared assail her from that hour. 

UNDER THE MISTLETOE. 

FROM Christmas dance and pleasant plans 
You stole away— perchance to rest. 
You were a daughter of the manse 
And I — a hapless, homeless uest. 
Along those storied walls you sped, 

Forgive me that I watched you go ! 
How could I help it, when \ou shed 
More radiance than the taper's glow? 

From light-spun jest and careless mirth 

You fled. Oh, love, why did you flee? 
Could you have dreamt how void of worth, 

Your absence made that cheer to me ? 
The rooms were full of Christmas time, 

And the ladies' laughter, sweetly low, 
Rang faint as distant silvered chime 

Of bells, across the crystal snow. 

A sensuous, sobbing waltz — indeed 

Within the mazes of that dance 
Man might have well forsworn his creed; 

Disarmed by beauty's magic lance, 
Yet o'er the fairest there jiw/ shone, 

Ah, did I not, sweet, tell you so. 
While we two briefly were alone — 

Enraptured 'neath the mistletoe? 

Within the circling glow you stood, 

Nay, was I then so much to blame ? 
Your eyes downcast, in pensive mood. 

Seemed but to spur the leading flame. 
I loved you so ! You were so fair ! 

But far above me, dear, I know ; 
Yet I forgot — yet, then and there, 

I kissed you 'neath the mistletoe. 

One thrilling second 'neath my kiss. 

Your sweet lips pulsed — could you forget ? 
That moment's clinging, tempting bliss. 

Seems worth a whole life of regret. 
Your warm face quivered on my breast. 

So long before I let you go ; 
For I, in Paradise, was blessed 

Full well beneath that mistletoe. 

In dreams I oft repeat that night, 

While pausing 'neath some verdant bough; 
The distant strains, that leaping light. 

My maddened pulse, long sobered now ! 
And oft I've wondered, love, since then, 

As Yule-log seasons come and go. 
If you recall that dear one, when 

I kissed you 'neath the mistletoe. 

Ah, me I The strongest are but weak. 
When pushing 'gainst fate's iron chain ; 



Crushed passions, which we dare not speak, 
Are those that wear upon the brain. 

But whether better to forget 

That Christmas page of long ago, 

I would not, if I could, regret 
One moment 'neath its mistletoe. 

So often, when I pass you by, 

A serf where you are throned a queen, 
I wonder if you never sigh. 

Or weep, perchance, when all unseen ! 
And if we two should stand again, 

Alone, as in that grand Yule glow. 
Would you be tender, love, as when 

I kissed you ' neath the mistletoe ? 

Martha E. Halahan. 



T 



THE CHANGE. 

HY features do not wear the light 
They wore in happier days ; 
Though still there may be much to love, 
There's little left to praise. 

The rose has faded from thy cheek — 
There's scarce a blush left now; 

And there's a dark and weary sign 
Upon thine altered brow. 

Thy raven hair is dashed with gray, 
Thine eyes are dim with tears; 

And care, before thy youth is past, 
Has done the work of years. 

Beautiful wreck ! for still thy face, 

Though changed, is very fair : 
Like beautv's moonlight, left to show 

Her morning sun was there. 

Letitia E. Landon. 

THE HUNTER'S SERENADE. 

THY bower' is finished, fairest ! 
Fit bower for himter's bride — 
Where old woods overshadow 
The green savanna's side. 
I've wandered long, and wandered far, 

And never have I met. 
In all this lovely western land, 

A spot so lovely yet. 
But I shall think it fairer. 

When thou art come to bless. 
With thy sweet smile and silver voice. 
Its silent loveliness. 

For thee the wild grape glistens. 

On sunny knoll and tree, 
The slim papaya ripens 

Its yellow fruit for thee. 
For thee the duck, on glassy stream. 

The prairie-fowl shall die, 
My rifle for thy feast shall bring 

The wild swan from the sky. 



ALBUM OF LOVE. 



199 



The forest's leaping panther, 

Fierce, beautilul, and fleet, 
Shall yield his spotted hide to be 

A carpet for thy feet. 

I know, for thou hast told me, 

Thy maiden love of flowers ; 
Ah, those that deck thy gardens 

Are pale compared with ours. 
When our wide woods and mighty lawns 

Bloom to the April skies. 
The earth has no more gorgeous sight 

To show to human eyes. 
In meadows red with blossoms, 

All summer long, the bee 
Murmurs, and loads his yellow thighs, 

For thee, my love, and me. 

Or wouldst thou gaze at tokens 

Of ages long ago — 
Our old oaks stream with mosses, 

And sprout with mistletoe ; 
And might)- vines, like serpents, climb 

The giant sycamore ; 
And trunks, o'erthrown for centuries, 

Cumbtr the forest floor; 
And in the grtat savanna, 

The solitary mound. 
Built by the elder world, o'erlooks 

The loneliness around. 

Come, thou has not forgotten 

Th)' pledge and promise quite. 
With many blushes murmured. 

Beneath the evening light. 
Come, the young violets crowd my door, 

'] hy earliest look to win. 
And at my silent window-sill 

The jessamine peeps in. 
All day the red bird warbles, 

Upon the mulberry near. 
And the night-sparrow trills her song, 

All night, with none to hear. 

W. C. Bryant. 



I 



THE LOVELINESS OF LOVE. 

r is not beauty I demand, 

A crystal brow, the moon's despair. 
Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand, 
Nor mermaid's yellow i)ride of hair. 



Tell me not of your starry eyes. 
Your lips that seem on roses fed. 

Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies 
Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed — 

A bloomv pair of vermeil cheeks 
Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours, 

A breath that softer music speaks 

Than summer winds a-wooing flowers;- 



A 



These are but gauds; nay, what are lips? 

Coral beneath the ocean-stream. 
Whose brink when your adventurer slips 

Full oft he perisheth on them. 

And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft 
That wave hot youth to fields of blood? 

Did Helen's breast though ne er so soft, 
Do Greece or Ilium any good ? 

Eyes can with baleful ardor burn ; 

Poison can breath, that erst perfumed; 
There's many a white hand holds an urn 

With lover's hearts to dust consumed. 

For crystal brows there's naught within; 

The\' are but empty cells for pride ; 
He who the Siren's hair would win 

Is mostly strangled in the tide. 

Give me, instead of beauty's bust, 
A tender heart, a loyal mind. 

Which with temptation I would trust, 
Yet never linked with error find — 

One in whose gentle bosom I 

Could ]iour mv secret heart of woes. 

Like the care-burdened honey-fly 

That hides his murmurs in the rose— 

My earthly comforter I whose love 

So indefeasible might be 
That, when my spirit wonned above, 

Hers could not stay, for sympathy. 

MV DEAR AND ONLY LOVE. 

MY dear and only love, I i>ray, 
This noble world of thee 
Be governed by no other sway 
But purest monarchy. 
For if confusion have a part, 

Which virtuous souls abhor. 
And hold a synod in thy heart, 
I'll never love thee more. 



Like Alexander I will reign. 

And I will reign alone, 
My thoughts shall evermore disdain 

A rival on my throne. 
He either fe.irs his fate too much. 

Or his deserts are small. 
That puts it not unto the touch. 

To win or lose it all. 

James Graham. 

WOOING. 

LITTLE bird once met another bird. 

And whistled to her, "Will you be my 
mate?" 
With fluttering wings she twittered. ''How 
absurd 1 
Oh, what a silly pate !" 



200 



ALBUM OF LOVE. 



And off into a distant tree she flew, 

To find concealment in the shady cover; 
And passed the hours in slyly peeping through 
At her rejected lover. 



The jilted bird, with drooping heart and wing, 

Poured forth his grief all day in plaintive songs; 
Telling in sadness to the ear of spring 
The story of his wrongs. 



But little thought he, while each nook and dell 
With the wild music of his plaint was thrilling, 



That scornful breast with sighs began to swell — 
Half-pitying and half-wdling. 

Next month I walked the same sequestered way, 
When close together on a twig I spied them ; 
And in a nest half-hid with leaves there lay 
Four little birds beside them. 



Coy maid, this moral in your ear I drop : 

When lover's hopes within their hearts you 
prison. 
Fly out of sight and hearing ; do not stop 
To look behind and listen. 

John B. L. Soule. 
LOVE IS ENOUGH. 



LOVE is enough. Let us not seek for gold. 
Wealth breeds false aims, and pride and 
selfishness ; 
In those serene. Arcadian days of old, 
Men gave no thought to princely homes and 
dress. 
The gods who dwelt in fair Olympia's height. 
Lived only for dear love and love's delight ; 
Love is enough. 

Love is enough. Why should we care for fame? 

Ambition is a most unpleasant guest : 
It lures us with the glory of a name 

Far from the happy haunts of peace and rest. 
Let us stay here in this secluded place, 
Made beautiful by love's endearing grace ; 
Love is enough. 



Love is enough. Why should we strive for power? 

It brings men only envy and distrust ; 
The poor world's homage pleases but an hour, 

And earthly honors vanish in the dust. 
The grandest lives are ofttimes desolate ; 
Let me be loved, and let who will be great ; 
Love is enough. 

Love is enough. Why should we ask for more ? 

What greater gift have gods vouchsafed to men? 
What better boon of all their precious store 

Than our fond hearts that love and love again ? 
Old love may die ; new love is just as sweet ; 
And life is fair, and all the world complete ; 
Love is enough. 
Ella Wheeler Wilcox. 



TO AN ABSENT WIFE. 



>'T~'IS morn ; the sea breeze seems to bring 
I Joy, health, and freshness on its wing ; 
•*■ Bright flowers, to me all strange and new, 
Are glittering in the early dew; 
And perfumes rise from many a grove 
As incense to the clouds that move 
Like spirits o'er yon welkin clear ; 
But I am sad — thou art not here. 

'Tis noon ; a calm unbroken sleep 
Is on the blue waves of the deep ; 
A soft haze, like a fairy dream, 
Is floating over hill and stream ; 
And many a broad magnolia flower 
Within its shadowy woodland bower 
Is gleaming like a lovely star ; 
But I am sad — thou art afar. 

'Tis eve ; on earth the sunset skies 
Are painting their own Eden dyes; 
The stars come down, and trembling glow 
Like blossoms in the waves below ; 



And, like some unseen sprite, the breeze 
Seems lingering 'mid the orange-trees. 
Breathing in music round the spot ; 
But I am sad — I see thee not. 

'Tis midnight; with a soothing spell 
The far tones of the ocean swell. 
Soft as a mother's cadence mild, 
Low bending o'er her sleeping child ; 
And on each wandering breeze are heard 
The rich notes of the mocking-bird 
In many a wild and wondrous lay ; 
But I am sad — thou art away. 

I sink in dreams, low, sweet, and clear; 
Thy own dear voice is in my ear ; 
Around my cheek thy tresses twine, 
Thy own loved hand is clasped in mine. 
Thy own soft lip to mine is pressed, 
Thy head is pillowed on my breast. 
Oh ! I have all my heart holds dear ; 
And I am happy — thou art here. 

George D. Prentice. 



NARRATIVES IN VERSE: 

INCLUDING 

TALES OF ADVENTURE AND ROMANCE. 




MASSACRE AT FORT DEARBORN, CHICAGO, 1812. 

ORN of the prairie and the wave — the blue sea and the green, 
A city of the Occident, Chicago, lay between; 
Dim trails upon the meadow, faint wakes npon the main, 
On either sea a schooner and a canvas-covered wain. 
I saw a dot upon the map, and a house-fly's flimsy wing — 
They said 'twas Dearborn's picket flag when Wilderness was 

king; 
I heard the reed-bird's morning song — the Indian's awkward flail — 
The rice tattoo in his rude canoe like a dash of April hail — 
The beaded grasses' rustling bend — the swash of the lazy tide 
Where ships shake out the salted sails and navies grandly ride ! 

I heard the block-house gates unbar, the column's solemn tread, 
I saw the tree of a single leaf its splendid foliage shed 
To wave awhile tliat August morn above the column's head ; 
I heard the moan of muffled drum, the woman's wail of fife. 

The Dead March played for Dearborn's men just marching out of life. 

The swooping of the savage cloud that burst upon the rank 

And struck it with its thunderbolt in forehead and in flank, 

The spatter of the musket-shot, the rifles' whistling rain — 

The sand-hills drift round hope forlorn that never marched again ! 

Benjamin F. Taylor. 

AN INCIDENT OF THE FIRE AT HAMBURGH. 



THE tower of old Saint Nicholas soared up- 
ward to the skies, 
Like some huge piece of nature's make, 
the growth of centuries ; 
You could not deem its crowding spires a work of 

human art. 
They seemed to struggle lightward so from a 
sturdy living heart. 

Not nature's self more freely speaks in crystal or 

in oak 
Than, through the pious builder's hand, in that 

gray pile she spoke ; 
And as from acorn s[)rings the oak, so, freely and 

alone 
Sprang from his heart this hymn to God, sung in 

obedient stone. 

It seemed a wondrous freak of chance, so perfect, 

yet so rough, 
A whim of nature crystallized slowly in granite 

tough ; 



The thick spires yearned toward the sky in quaint 

harmonious lines, 
And in broad sunlight basked and slept, like a 

grove of blasted pines. 

Never did rock or stream or tree lay claim with 

better right 
To all the adorning sympathies of shadow and of 

light; 
And in that forest petrified, as forester there 

dwells 
Stout Herman, the old sacristan, sole lord of all 

its bells. 

Surge leaping after surge, the fire roared onward, 

red as blood. 
Till half of Hamburgh lay engulfed beneath the 

eddying flood; 
For miles away, the fiery spray poured down its 

deadly rain. 
And back and forth the billows drew, and paused, 

and broke again. 

201 



202 



NARRATIVES IN VERSE. 



From square to square, with tiger leaps, still on 

and on it came ; 
The air to leeward trembled with the pantings of 

the flame, 
And church and palace, uhich even now stood 

whelmed but to the knee. 
Lift their black roofs like breakers lone amid the 

rushing sea. 

Up in his tower old Herman sat and watched with 

quiet look ; 
His soul had trusted God too long to be at last 

forsook : 
He could not fear, for surely God a pathway 

would unfold 
Through this red sea, for faithful hearts, as once 

he did of old. 

But scarcely can he cross himself, or on his good 
saint call. 

Before the sacrilegious flood o'erleaped the church- 
yard wall, 

THE DYING 

A WOUNDED chieftain, lying 
By the Danube's leafy side, 
Thus faintly said, in dying, 
"Oh ! bear, thou foaming tide 
This gift to my lady bride." 

'Twas then, in life's last quiver, 
He flung the scarf he wore 

Into the foaming river. 

Which, ah too quickly, bore 
That pledge of one no more ! 

With fond impatience burning, 

The chieftain's lady stood, 
To watch her love returning 



And, ere a. pater half was said, 'mid smoke and 

crackling glare, 
His island tower scarce juts its head above the 

wide despair. 

Upon the peril's desperate peak his heart stood 

up sublime; 
His first thought was for God above, his next was 

ibr his chime ; 
"Sing now, and make your voices heard in hymns 

of praise," cried he, 
"As did the Israelites of old, safe-walking through 

the sea ! 

" Through this red sea our God hath made our 

pathway safe to shore ; 
Our jiromised land stands full in sight ; shout now 

as ne'er before." 
And, as the tower came crashing down, the bells, 

in clear accord, 
Pealed forth the grand old German hymn — "All 

good souls praise the Lord ! " 

James Russell Lowell. 

WARRIOR. 

In triumph down the flood, 
From that day's field of blood. 

But, field, alas ! ill-fated, 
The lady saw, instead 

Of tlie bark whose speed she waited. 
Her hero's scarf, all red 
With the drops his heart had shed. 

One shriek — and all was over — 
Her life-pulse ceased to beat; 

The gloomy waves now cover 
That bridal flower so sweet, 
And the scarf is her winding-sheet. 

Thomas Moore. 



THE INDIAN BOAT. 



T 



WAS midnight dark. 

The seaman's bark 
Swift o'er the waters bore him, 
When, through the night; 
He spied a light 
Shoot o'er the wave before him. 
" A sail ! a sail!" he cries; 

" She comes from the Indian shore, 
And to-night shall be our prize, 
With her freight of golden ore : 
'''ail on ! sail on !" 
AVhen morning shone. 
He saw the gold still clearer ; 
But, though so fast 
Tlie waves he passed, 
That boat seemed never the nearer. 

Bright daylight came, 
And still the same 
Rich bark before him floated ; 



While on the prize 

His wishful eyes 
Like any young lover's doted : 
" More sail ! more sail !" he cries. 

While the waves o'ertop the mast; 
And his bounding galley flies, 
Like an arrow before the blast. 

Thus on, and on. 

Till day \\as gone, 
And the moon through heaven did hie her, 

He swept the main, 

But all in vain, 
That boat seemed never the nigher. 

And many a day 

To night gave way, 
And manv a morn succeeded : 

While still his flight, 

Through day and night. 
That restless mariner speeded. 



NARRATIVES IN VERSE. 



203 



Who knows — who knows what seas 

He is now careering o'er? 
Behind, the eternal breeze, 

And that mocking bark, before ! 
For, oh till sky 
And earth shall die. 
And their death leave none to rue it. 
That boat must flee 
O'er the boundless sea. 
And that ship in vain pursue it. 

Thomas Moore. 

THE GREEN MOUNTAIN JUSTICE. 

\ (, ' I ""HE snow is deep," the Justice said ; 
I "There's mighty mischief overhead." 
*- "High talk, indeed!" his wife ex- 
claimed ; 
" What, sir I shall Providence be 1 lamed?" 
The Justice, laughing, said, " Oh no ! 
I only meant the loads of snow 
Upon the roofs. The barn is weak ; 
I greatly fear the roof will break. 
So hand me up the spade, my dear, 
1 11 mount the barn, the roof to clear." 
" No !" said the wife; "the barn is high. 
And if you slip, and fall, and die, 
How will my living be secured ? — 
Stephen, i,our life is not insured. 
But tie a rope your waist around, 
And it will hold you safe and sound." 
" I will," said he. " Now for the roof — 
All snugly tied, and danger-proof! 
Excelsior ! Excel — But no ! 
The rope is not secured below I" 
Said Rachel, " Climb, the end to throw 
Across the top, and I will go 
And tie that end around my waist." 

" Well, every woman to her taste ; 
You always would be tightly laced. 
Rachel, when you became my bride, 
I thought the knot securely tied ; 
But lest the bond should break in twain, 
I'll have it fastened once again." 
Below the arm-pits tied around. 
She takes her station on the ground. 
While on the roof, beyond the ridge, 
He shovels clear the lower edge. 
But, sad mischance ! the loosened snow 
Comes sliding down, to plunge below. 
And as he tumbles with the slide. 
Up Rachel goes on t'other side. 
Just half-way down the Justice hung ; 
Just lialf-wav up the woman swung. 
" Good land o' Goshen !" shouted she ; 
" Why, do you see it?" answered he. 

The couple, dangling in the breeze, 
Like turkeys, hung outside to freeze. 
At their rope's end and wit's end, too. 
Shout back and forth what best to do. 



Cried Stephen, " Take it coolly, wife; 

All have their ups and downs in life." 

Quoth Rachel, " What a pity 'tis 

To joke at such a time as this ? 

A man whose wife is being hung 

Should know enough to hold his tongue." 

" Now, Rachel, as I look below, 

I see a tempting heap of snow. 

Suppose, my dear, I take my knife. 

And cut the rope to save my life?" 

She shouted, "Don't! 'twould be my death — 

I see some pointed stones beneath. 

A better way would be to calj. 

With all our might, for Phebe Hall." 

" Agreed !" he roared. First he, then she 

Gave tongue; " O Phebe ! Phebe ! /"/i^r-^- 

be Hall!'' in tones both fine and coarse, 

Enough to make a drover hoarse. 

Now Phebe, over at the farm. 
Was sitting, sewing, snug and warm; 
But hearing, as she thought, her name. 
Sprang up, and to the rescue came ; 
Beheld the scene, and thus she thought : 
" If now a kitchen chair were brought, 
And I could reach the lady's foot, 
I'd draw her downward by the boot, 
Then cut the rope, and let him go ; 
He cannot miss t'le pile of snow." 
He sees her moving towards his wife. 
Armed with a chair and carving-knife. 
And, ere he is aware, perceives 
His head ascending to the eaves ; 
And, guessing what the two are at. 
Screams from beneath the roof, ' ' Stop that ! 
You make me fall too far, by half!" 
But Phebe answers, with a laugh, 
" Please tell a body by what right 
You've brought your wife to such a plight !" 
And then, with well-directed blows. 
She cuts the rope and down he goes. 

The wife untied, they walk around, 
When lo ! no Stephen can be found. 
They call in vain, run to and fro ; 
They look around, above, below ; 
No trace or token can they see, 
And deeper grows the mystery. 
Then Rachel's heart within her sank; 
But, glancing at the snowy bank. 
She caught a little gleam of hope — 
\ gentle movement of the rope. 
They scrape away a little snow ; 
What's this? A hat ! Ah ! he's below. 
Then upward heaves the snowy pile. 
And forth he stalks in tragic style, 
Unhurt, and with a roguish smile ; 
And Rachel sees, with glad surprise. 
The missing found, the fallen rise. 

Henry Reeves. 




204 



NARRATIVES IN VERSE. 



205 



MY LANDLADY. 



A 



SMALL brisk woman, capped with many a 
bow ; 
"Yes," so she says, "and younger, too, 
than some," 
Who bids me, bustling, " Godspeed," when I go, 
And gives me, rustling, "Welcome," when I 
come. 

■"Ay, sir, 'tis cold — and freezing hard, they say; 
I'd like to give that hulking brute a hit — 
Beating his horse in such a shameful way ! — 
Step here, sir, till your fire's blazed up a bit." 

A musky haunt of lavender and shells. 

Quaint-figured Chinese monsters, toys, and 
tra\-s — 



" Where is he?" " Ah, sir, he is dead — my boy ! 
Full thirty years ago — in 'sixty-three ; 
He's always living in my head — my boy ! 
He was left drowning in the Southern Sea. 

' ' There were two souls washed overboard, they said. 
And one the waves brought back; but he was 
left. 
They saw him ])lace the life-buoy o'er his head; 
The sea was running wildly; — he was left. 

" He was a strong, strong swimmer. Do you 
know. 
When the wind whistled yesternight, I cried, 
.And prayed to God — -though 'twas so long ago — 
He did not struggle much before he died. 




A life's collection — where each object tells 
Of fashions gone and half-forgotten ways : — 

A glossy screen, where wide-mouth dragons ramp ; 

A vexed inscription in a sampler-frame ; 
A shade of beads upon a red-capped lamp ; 

A child's mug graven with a golden name ; 

A pictured ship, with full-blown canvas set ; 

A card, with seaweed twisted to a wreath. 
Circling a silky curl as black as jet, 

With yellow writing faded underneath. 

Looking, I sink within the shrouded chair, 
And note the objects, slowly one by one. 

And light at last upon a portrait there — 

Wide-collared, raven-haired. " Yes, 'tis mv 
son!" 



' l\vas 



That's the box he 



his third vo\age. 

brought — 
Or would have brought, my poor deserted boy ! 
And these the words the agents sent — they 

thouglit 
That money, perhaps, could make my loss a joy. 

' Look, sir, I ve something here that I prize more. 
This is a fragment of the poor lad's coat — 
That other clutched him as the wave went o'er. 
And this stayed in his hand. That's what 
they wrote. 

' Well, well, 'tis done. My story's shocking you; 

Grief is for them that have both time and 

wealth ; 

We can't mourn much, who have much work to do ; 

Your fire is bright. Thank God, I have my 

health?" Austin Dobson. 



206 



NARRATIVES IN VERSE. 



KNIGHT TOQGENBURQ. 



(, i XT' NIGHT, to love thee like a sister 
1^ Vows this heart to thee ; 

*■ ^^ Ask no other, warmer feeling — 

That were jjain to me. 
Tranquil would I see thy coming, 

Tranquil see ihee go; 
What that starting tear would tell me, 

I must never know." 

He with silent anguish listens. 
Though his heart-strings bleed ; 




Clasps her in his List embraces, 

Springs upon his steed ; 
Summons every faithful vassal 

From his Alpine home ; 
Binds the cross upon his bosom. 

Seeks the Holy Tomb. 

There full many a deed of glory 

Wrought the hero's arm ; 
Foremost still his plumage floated 

Where the foemen swarm ; 
Till the Moslem, terror-stricken, 

Quailed be'bre his name ; — 
But the pang that wrings his bosom 

Lives at heart the fame. 

One long year he bears his sorrow. 

But no more can bear ; 
Rest he seeks, but finding never. 

Leaves the army there ; 
Sees a ship bv Joppa's haven, 

Which, with swelling sail, 



Wafts him where his lady's breathing 
Mingles with the gale. 

At her father's castle-portal 

Hark ! his knock is heard : 
See ! the gloomy gate uncloses 

With the thunder-word : 
" She thou seek'st is veiled forever, 

Is the bride of heaven ; 
Yester-eve the vows were pligiited — 

She to God is given." 

Then his old ancestnj castle 

He forever flees ; 
Battle steed and tru^t, weapon 

Nevermore he sees. 
From the Toggenburg descending 

Forth unknown he glides ; 
For the frame once sheathed in iron 

Now the sackcloth hides. 



There beside that hallowed region 

He hath built his bower. 
Where from out the dusky lindens 

Looked the convent-tower ; 
Waiting from the morning's glim- 
mer 

Till the day was done, 
Tranquil ho|)e in every feature, 

Sat he there alone. 



Gazing upward to the convent, 

Hour on hour he passed ; 
Watching still his lady's lattice 

Till it oped at last ; 
Till that form looked forth so 
lovely, 
Till the swett face smiled 
Down into the lonesome valley. 
Peaceful, angel-mild. 

Then he laid him down to shnnber, 

Cheered by peacetul dreau.s, 
Calmly waiting till the morning 

Showed again its beams. 
Thus for days he watched and waited. 

Thus for years he lay, 
Happy if he saw the lattice 

Open day by day — 

If that form looked forth so lovely, 

If the sweet face smiled 
Down into the lonesome valley, 

Peaceful, angel-mild. 
There a corpse they found him sitting 

Once when day returned. 
Still his jiale and placid features 

To the lattice turned. 

F. VON Schiller. 



NARRATIVES IN VERSE. 



207 



PHILLIPS OF PELHAMVILLE. 

SHOR'J' is the story I say, if you will 
Hear it, of Phillips of Pelhamville : 

An engineer for many a day 

Over miles and miles of the double way. 

Day and night, in all kinds of weather, 
He and the engine lie drave together. 

I can fancy this Phillips as one in my mind 
With little of speech to waste on his kind, 

Always sharp and abrupt of tone, 
Whether off duty or standing on. 

With this firm belief in himself that he reckoned 
His duty first ; all the rest was second. 

Short is the story I say, if you will 
Hear it, of Phillips of Pelhamville. 

He was out that day, running sharp, for he knew 
He must shunt ahead for a train overdue, 

The South Express coming on behind 
With the swing and rush of a mighty wind. 

No need to say in this verse of mine 
How accidents happen along the line. 

A rail lying wide to the gauge ahead, 
A signal clear when it should be red ; 

An axle breaking, the tire of a wheel 
Snapping off at a hidden flaw in the steel. 

Enough. There were wagons piled up in the air, 
As if some giant had tossed them there. 

Rails broken and bent like a willow wand, 

And sleepers torn up through the ballast and sand. 

The hiss of the steam was heard, as it rushed 
Through the safety-valves of the engine, crushed 

Deep into the slope, like a monster driven 
To hide itself from the eye of heaven. 

But where was Phillips ? From underneath 
The tender wheels, with their grip of death, 

They drew him, scalded by steam, and burned 
By the engine fires as it overturned. 

They laid him gently upon the slope, 
Then knelt beside him with little of hope. 

Though dying, he was the only one 

Of them all that knew what ought to be done ; 

For his fading eye grew quick with a fear, 
As if of some danger approaching near. 

And it sought— not the wreck of his train that lay 
Over tiie six and the four-feet way — 

But tlown the track, for there hung on his mind 
The South Express coming up behind. 

And he half arose with a stifled groan. 

While his voice had the same old ring in its tone : 



"Signal the South Express!" he said. 

Then fell back in the arms of his stoker, dead. 

Short, as you see, is this story of mine. 
And of one more hero of the line. 

For hero he was, though before his name 
Goes forth no trumpet-blast of fame. 

Yet true to his duty, as steel to steel, 
Was Phillips the driver of Pelhamville. 

Alexander Anderson. 

THE FAMINE. 

FROM "HIAWATHA." 

IN the wigwam with Nokomis, 
With those gloomy guests that watched her. 
With the Famine and the Fever, 

She was lying, the beloved. 

She the dying Minnehaha. 
" Hark !" she .said, " I hear a rushing. 

Hear a roaring and a rushing. 

Hear the Falls of Minnehaha 

Calling to me from a distance !" 
"No, my child!" said old Nokomis, 
"'Tis the night-wind in the pine-trees!" 
" Look !" she said, " I see my father 

Standing lonely at his doorway, 

Beckoning to me from his wigwam 

In the land of the Dacotahs !" 
"No, my child !" said old Nokomis, 
"'Tis the smoke that waves and beckons!" 

"Ah !" she said, " the eyes of Pauguk 
Glare upon me in the darkness, 
I can feel his icy fingers 
Clasping mine amid the darkness I 
Hiawatha! Hiawatha!" 

And the desolate Hiawatha, 
Far away amid the forest. 
Miles away among the mountains, 
Heard that sudden cry of anguish, 
Heard the voice of Minnehaha 
Calling to him in the darkness, 
" Hiawatha ! Hiawatha ! ' ' 

Over snow-fields waste and pathless, 
Under snow-encumbe-ed branches. 
Homeward hurried Hiawatha, 
Empty-handed, heavy-hearted, 
Heard Nokomis moaning, wailing ; 
" Wahonowin ! Wahonowin ! 
Would that I had [lerished for you. 
Would that I were dead as you are ! 
Wahonowin ! Wahonowin!" 
And he rushed into tlie wigwam, 
Saw the old Nokomis slowly 
Rocking to and fro and moaning. 
Saw his lovely Minnehaha 
Lying dead and cold before him. 
And his bursting heart within him 



208 



NARRATIVES IN VERSE. 



"Uttered such a cry of anguish, 

That the tbrest moaned and shuddered, 

That the very stars in heaven 

Shook and trembled with his anguish. 

Then he sat down still and speechless, 
On the bed of Minnehaha, 
At the feet of Laughing Water, 
At those willing feet, tliat never 
More would lightly run to meet him, 
Never more would lightly follow. 
With both hands his face he covered, 
Seven long days and nights he sat there, 
As if in a swoon he sat there, 
Speechless, motionless, unconscious 
Of the daylight or the darkness. 




.^-j-t 



Then they buried Minnehaha ; 
In the snow a grave they made her. 
In the forest deep and darksome. 
Underneath the moaning hemlocks ; 
Clothed her in her richest garments, 
Wrapped her in her robes of ermine. 
Covered her with snow, like ermine ; 
Thus they buried Minnehaha. 
And at night a fire was lighted. 
On her grave four times was kindled, 
For her soul upon its journey 
To the Islands of the Blessed. 
From his doorway Hiawatha 
Saw it burning in the forest, 
Lighting up the gloomy hemlocks; 
From his sleepless bed uprising. 
From the bed of Minnehaha, 
Stood and watched it at the doorway, 
That it might not be extinguished. 
Might not leave her in the darkness. 

'Farewell!" said he, "Minnehaha; 
Farewell, O my Laughing Water ! 
All my heart is buried with you, 
All my thoughts go onward with you ! 
Come not back again to labor. 



Come not back again to suffer, 
Where the Famine and the Fever 
Wear the heart and waste the body. 
Soon my task will be completed. 
Soon your footsteps I shall follow 
To the Islands of the Blessed, 
To the Kingdom of Ponemah, 
To the Land of the Hereafter !" 

H. W. Longfellow. 

CONDUCTOR BRADLEY. 

CONDUCTOR Bradley (always may his 
name 
Be said with reverence \) as the swift doom 
came. 
Smitten to death, a crushed and mangled frame, 



Sank with the brake he grasped just 

where he stood 
To do the utmost that a brave man 

could, 
And die, if needful, as a true man 

should. 

Men stooped above him ; women 

dropped their tears 
On that poor wreck beyond all hopes 

or fears. 
Lost in the strength and glory of his 

years. 

What heard they? Lo! the ghastly 

lips of pain. 
Dead to all thought save duty's, 

moved again : 




" Put out the signals for the other train !" 

No nobler utterance since the world began, 
From lips of saint or martyr ever ran, 
Electric, through the sympathies of man. 

Ah, me ! how poor and noteless seem to this 
The sick-bed drama of self-consciousness — 
Our sensual fears of pain and hopes of bliss ! 

Oh, grand, supreme endeavor ! Not in vain 
That last brave act of failing tongue and brain ! 
Freighted with life, the downward-rushing train, 

Following the wrecked one as wave follows wave, 
Obeyed the warning which the dead lips gave. 
Others he saved, himself he could not save ! 

Nay, the lost life was saved. He is not dead 
Who in his record still the earth shall tread 
With God's clear aureole shining round his head. 

We bow as in the dust, with all our pride 
Of virtue dwarfed the /n>ble deed beside, 
God give us grace to live as Bradley died ! 

J. G. Whittier. 



NARRAIIVES IN VERSE. 



209 



A GIRL HEROINE. 

SHE had heard of lieroi.ies f.ir away, 
Of wonderful deeds ihat girls had done, 
And wished that she were as brave as they 
Who such an amount of praise had won. 
There was naught she could do to gain renown, 

No chance for a commonplace girl like her; 
For a blizzard never had reached the town. 
Nor anything else that made a stir. 

She had often read of Joan of Arc, 

And in spirit followed the daring maid, 
And wondered if she was scared at the dark, 

Or of ghosts and goblins had been afraid 
When she was a child. And was it true 

That angels came to her in a trance, 
And told her exactly what to do 

For her honor, and the glory and good of 
France ? 

And Amy sighed ; and she said : " 'Tis well 

That I lead an easy and quiet life, 
With nothing that's likely to compel 

My taking part in such active strife; 
For 1 faint away at the sight of blood, 

Would run a mile to avoid a cow, 
And at thought of terrors of fire and flood 

Am ready to go in hysterics now. 

" I am only brave in my dreams, and then 

To accomplish my purpose I never fail. 
But rush to the charge with valiant mein 

And a heart that scoffs at a coat-of-mail. 
What plans I make! and what deeds I do ! 

King Arthur himself had no grander schemes, 
Nor ever more glorious triumiihs knew 

Than I — in my rapturous girlish dreams." 

That night came a wild, fierce cry of " Fire !" 

And Amy sprang from her couch with a scream. 
For the flames about her were drawing nigher. 

And seemed at first like a horrid dream. 
The stairs were ablaze ; and below them stood 

Her mother — the young babe in her arms — 
And she looked as only a mother could 

Whose heart was tortured with vague alarms. 

She strove to speak, but her lips were dumb ; 

She tried to move, but she could not stir ; 
Oh, why should horror her strength lienumb. 

And at this moment so cripple her? 
There — above — in an inner room — 

Her children slept, while the flames rose higher ; 
Naught couhl avert their fearful doom ; 

And between her and them was this wall of fire ! 

Quick as a flash did Amy speed 

To the bed where nestled each tiny elf; 

Strength was given for the hour of need. 
She had no time to think of herself. 

But seizing each, with a loving kiss 

She hushed their fears, and then hurled them so 
14 



Over the fiery red abyss 

That they were caught by the men below. 

Then Amy stood at the head of ihe stair 

Alone and jjallid — but not with night; 
And she looked like an angel standing there. 

Crowned with a halo of dazzling light. 
She did not know that they called her name. 

Nor heard them shrieking, " Jump ! jump this 
way !" 
Her gaze was fixed on the lurid flame. 

And she knew 'twas fatal to long delay. 

So over the chasm, with flying leap. 

Did Amy go into outstretched hands. 
That were eager the hungry flames to keep 

From leaving their mark on these precious 
brands. 
Plucked from the burning. And oh, what bliss 

To gaze once more o i her mother's face, 
To be rewarded with kiss on kiss, 

When closely held in her fond embrace ! 

From the noisy plaudits she shrank dismayed. 

With a feeling that her deserts were small — 
'Twas but an impulse that she obeyed ; 

Yet she was a heroine after all. 
And had learned the lesson that from above 

Is strength imparted for all our needs. 
And that even a child with a heart of love 

May astonish the world with its mighty deeds. 



I 



THE FAITHFUL LOVERS. 

'D been away from here three years — about 
that— 

And I returned to find my Mary true ; 
And thought I'd question her, nor doubted that 

It was unnecessary so to do. 

'Twas by the chimney corner we were sitting ; 
"Mary," said I, "have you been always 
true?" 
" Franky," said she — ^just pausing in her knit- 
ting— 
" I don't think I've unfaithful been to you ; 
But for the three years past I'll tell you what 
I've done : then say if I've been true or not. 

" When first )'ou left, my grief w:is uncontrollable. 
Alone I mourned my miserable lot. 

And all who saw me thought me inconsolable, 
Till Captain Cliflbrd came from Aldershott ; 

To flirt with him amused me while 'twas new; 
I don't count that unfaithfulness. Do you? 

" The next — oh ! let me see — was Freddy Phipps, 
I met him at my uncle's, Christmas-tide ; 
And 'neath the mistletoe, where lips met lips. 
He gave me his first kiss" — and here she 
sighed ; 
" We staved six weeks at uncle's — how time flew! 
I don't count that unfaithfulness. Do you? 



210 



NARRATIVES IN VERSE. 



Lord Cecil Fossmore, only twenty-one, 

Lent me his horse. Oh, how we rode and 
raced ! 
We scoured the downs, we rode to hounds — such 
fun ! 
And often was his arm around my waist — 
That was to lift me up or down. But who 
Would count that unfaithfulness? Do you? 

Do you know Reggy Vere ? Ah, how he sings ! 
We met — 'twas at a picnic. Ah, such weather ! 
He gave me, look, the first of these two rings, 



When we were lost in Cliefden woods to- 
gether. 
Ah, what happy times we spent, we two ! 
I don't count that unfaithfulness to you. 

I've got another ring from him. D'you see 
The plain gold circle that is shining here?" 

I took her hand : " Oh, Mary ! can it be 
That you" — quoth she, "That I am Mrs. 
Vere. 

I don't count that unfaithfulness, do you?" 

No," I replied, " for i am married, too " 




THE MORTE CHAPEL. 

now IT WAS CONSECRATED. 



A Norwegian bark was driven on the rocks at Morte 
Point, North Devon, during a heavy storm. All attempts 
to launch the boats proved failures, but an immense wave 
lifted the upper part of the ship, and carried it %vith the 
sailors upon it safely to the shore. The captain, a God-fear- 
ing man, led his crew to the village, and found shelter in the 
newly-built chapel, which as yet had not been used for pub- 
lic worship. 

< < TV T O boat may ride," the captain cried, 
I ^ " In a raging sea like this ; 

And the rocks that gore my brave barque 
o'er. 
Must sink her soon, I wis. 

"Yet launch the boat, for man must strive 

Ere ever he turns to God." 
The boat was lowered — the white waves poured 

To sink her like a clod. 



Said the captain brave, " ' Tis the hour of prayer, 

When human efforts fail;" 
By the quivering mast they knelt them fast, 

'Mid the thunders of the gale. 

Crash went the timbers of the wreck. 

And strewed that fatal strand ; 
But safe to shore, the mad waves o'er. 

The deck was swept to land. 

Right on the crest of the wild foam's breast, 

It steers like a thing of life ; 
And the mariners there scarce cease their pra\er. 

Ere it lifts them from the strife. 

" Now rise, ye men," cried the captain then, 

" For the Master's hand is seen ; 
Though the billows roar on the angry shore, 

'Tis the hour of praise, I ween." 



NARRATIVES IN VERSE. 



211 



They climbed the hill, where the village still 

Slept 'neath the silent stars; 
Not a voice tliey hear, to bid them cheer, 

Not a house will loose its bars. 

'Tis the village kirk, unblessed of man, 

That opens wide its door ; 
And, shelter found, they kneel around 

In prayer on its unstained floor. 

Their hearts they raise, in a hymn of praise, 

A glad, thanksgiving song ; 
What bishop or choir with a joy like theirs? 

What hallowing rite so strong ? 

And the benediction lingers yet. 

Like the dew or the gracious rain ; 
For the clouds that rise, and float to the skies, 

Must fall to the earth again. 

Walter Baxendale. 

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE 
AT BALAKLAVA. 

From September, 1S54, to June, 1856, Balaklava, a small 
Greek fishing village in the Crimea, was the British liead- 
quarters during the Crimean war. Here the famous charge 
of the Six Hundred was made, October 25, 1854, which 
has rendered the name of Balaklava glorious as that of 
Thennopyl^. The ballad was written, as Tennyson him- 
self tells us, after reading the report in a morning journal, 
where only six hundred and seven sabres were mentioned as 
having taken part in the magnificent charge. Later, the 
soldiers sang this ballad, now uf world-wide fame, by their 
watch-fires in the Crimea. 



H 



ALF a league, half a league, 

Haifa league onward. 

All in the valley of death. 

Rode the six hundred. 



Into the valley of death 
Rode the si.x hundred ; 

For up came an order which 
Some one had blundered. 

" Forward, the light brigade ! 

Take the guns !" Nolan said : 

Into the valley of death. 
Rode the six hundred. 

"Forward the light brigade !" 
No man was there dismayed — 
Not though the soldier knew 

Some one had blundered : 
Theirs not to make reply. 
Theirs not to reason why. 
Theirs but to do and die — 
Into the valley cif d^'ath, 

Pode the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of ihem. 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon in front of them. 

Volleyed and thundered. 
Stormed at with shot and shell. 
Boldly they rode and well ; 



Into the jaws of death, 
Into the mouth of hell, 
Rode the six hundred. 

Flashed all their sabres bare, 
Flaslied all at once in air, 
Sabring the gunners there. 
Charging an army, while 

All the world wondered. 
Plunged in the battery smoke. 
With many a desperate stroke 
The Russian line they broke ; 
Then they rode back, but not — 

Not the six hundred. ; 

Cannon to right of them. 
Cannon 10 left of them. 
Cannon behind them. 

Volleyed and thundered : 
Stormed at with shot and shell, 
While horse and hero fell. 
They that had fought so well. 
Came through the jaws of death. 
Back from the mouth of hell, 
All that was left of them 

Left of six hundred. 

When can their glory fade? 
Oh, the wild charge they made ! 

All the world wondered. 
Honor the charge they made ! 
Honor the Light Brigade, 

Noble six hundred ! 

Alfred Tennyson. 

ONE OF THE SIX HUNDRED. 

A paragraph recently a]ip.:aretl in a New York journal an- 
nouncing the death of John Fitzpatrick, one of the Light 
Brigade, who died of starvation in England. He had re- 
ceived a pension of sixpence a day, which, however, was 
withdrawn several years ago, and he endeavored to eke out a 
miserable existence by riding in circus pageants. Old age 
and disease had unfitted him for this or any other work ; the 
only refuge for the disabled soldier was the workhouse, from 
which he shrank in horror. The verdict of the coroner's 
jury was : " Died of starvation, and the case is a disgrace to 
the War Office." 

SPEED tlie news ; speed the news ! 
Speed the news onward ! 
" Died of starvation," one . 
Of the Six Hundred : 
One who his part had played 
Well in the Light Brigade, 

Rode with six hundred. ■ 

Food to the riL'ht of him, 
Food to the left of him. 
Food all around, yet 

The veteran hungered ; 
He, who through shot and shell 
Fearlessly rode, and well, 
And when the word was " Charge," 

Shrank not nor lingered. .. 



212 



NARRATIVES IN VERSE. 



" Off to the workhouse, you !' 
Back in dismay he drew — 
Feeling he never knew 

When cannon thundered. 
His not to plead or sigh, 
His but to starve nnd die, 
And to a paupers's grave 
Sink with a soul as brave 
As through the vale of death 

Rode the six hundred. 




Flashed a proud spirit ihere, 
(Jp through the man's despair, 
Shaming the servile there. 
Scaring the timid, while 

Sordid souls wondered ; 
Then turned to facp his fate 
Calmly, with a soul as great 



As when through shot and shell 

He rode with six hundred ! 
With high hope elate, 
Laughing in face of fate — 

Rode with six hundred. 

Hunger his mate by day, 
Sunday and working day. 
Winter and summer day — 

Shame on the nation ! 
Struggling with might and main, 
Smit wiih disease and pain, 
He, in Victoria's reign, 
"Died of starvation." 

While yet the land with pride 
Tells of the headlong ride 

Of the six hundred ; 
While yet the welkin rings. 
While yet the laureate sings, 

"Some one has blundered;" y 

."-^ Let us with bated breath 

Tell how one starved to death — 

Of the six hundred. 

What can that bosom hide ? 
Oh the dread death he died ! 

^Vell may men wonder — 
One of the Light Brigade, 
One who that charge had made, 

Died of sheer hiinrer. 

RIVER AND TIDE. 

ON the bank of the river was seated one day 
An old man, and close by his side 
Was a child who had paused from his 
laughing and play 
To gaze at the stream, as it hurried away 
To the sea, witli the ebb of the tide. 

"What see you, my child, in the stream, as it 
flows 
To the ocean, so dark and deep? 
Are you watching how swift, yet how silent it 

goes? 
Thus hurry our lives, till they sink in repose, 
And are lost in a measureless sleep. 

" Now listen, my boy ! You are young, I am old, 

And yet like two rivers are we ; 
Though the flood-tide of youth from time's ocean 

in rolled. 
Yet it ebbs all too soon, and its waters grow cold 

As it creeps back again to the sea. 

"But the river returns!" cried the boy, while his 
eyes 
Gleamed bright at the water belov^. 
"Ah! yes," said the old man ; "but time, as it 

flies. 
Turns the tide of our life, and it ne\ercan rise." 
" But first," said the boy, " it must flow." 



NARRATIVES IN VERSE. 



213 



Thus, watching its course from the bank of the 
stream, 
They mused, as they sat side by side ; 
Each read different tales in the river's bright 

gleam — 
One borne with the flow of a glorious dream, 
And one going out with the tide. 



Ah ! nothing like the heavy step 
Betrays the heavy heart. 

It is a usual history 

That Indian girl could tell ; 
Fate sets apart one common doom 

For all who love too well. 




The " mighty Fall " mentioned in this pa- 
thetic poem was Niagara, and the incident is a 
well-authenticated fact. 

SHE sat alone beside her hearth — 
For many nights alone; 
She slept not on the jileasant couch 
Where fragrant herbs were strown. 

At first she bound her raven hair 

With feather and with shell ; 
But then she hoped ; at length, like night, 

Around her neck it fell. 

They saw her wandering 'mij the woods. 
Lone, with the cheerless dawn, 

And then they said, " Can this be her 
We called, ' The Startled Fawn ?' " 

Her heart was in her large sad eyes. 
Half sunshine and half shade; 

And love, as love first springs to life, 
Of everything afraid. 

The red leaf far more heavily 

Fell down to autumn earth, 
Than her light feet, which seemed to move 

To music and to mirth. 

With the light feet of early youth. 
What hopes and joys depart ! 



The proud — the shy — the sensitive — 

Life has not many such ; 
They dearly buy their happiness. 

By feeling it too much. 

A stranger to her forest home. 
That fair voung stranger came; 

They raised for him the ftmeral son^; — 
For him the funeral flame. 

Love sprang from pity — and her arms 
Around his arms she threw; 

She told her father, "If he dies. 
Your daughter dieth too." 

For her sweet sake they set him free — 
He lingered at her side ; 



214 



NARRATIVES IN VERSE. 



And many a native song yet tells 
Of that pale stranger's bride. 

Two years have passed — how much two years 

Have taken in their flight ! 
They've taken from the lip its smile, 

And from the eye its light. 

Poor child ! she was a child in years — 

So timid and so young; 
With what a fond and earnest faith 

To desperate hope she clung ! 

His eyes grew cold — his voice grew strange — 

They only grew more dear. 
She served him meekly, anxiously. 

With love — half faith, half fear. 

And can a fond and faithful heart 

Be worthless in those eyes 
For which it beats ? — Ah ! woe to those 

Who such a heart despise. 

Poor child ! what lonely days she passed, 

With nothing to recall 
But bitter taunts, and careless words. 

And looks more cold than all. 

Alas ! for love, that sits at home. 

Forsaken, and yet fond ; 
The grief that sits beside the hearth, 

Life has no grief beyond. 

He left her, but she followed him — 

She thought he could not bear 
When she had left her home for him 

To look on her despair. 

Adown the strange and mighty stream 

She took her lonely way 1 
The stars at night her pilots were. 

As was the sun by da\'. 

Yet mournfully — how mournfully ; — 

The Indian looked behind, 
When the last sound of voice or step 

Died on the midnight wind. 

Yet still adown the gloomy stream 

She plied her weary oar ; 
Her husband — he had left their home. 

And it was home no more. 

She found him — but she found in vain — 

He spurned her from his side ; 
He said, her brow was all too dark. 

For her to be his bride. 

She grasped his hands — her own were cold — 

And silent turned away. 
As she had not a tear to shed. 

And not a word to say. 



And pale as death she reached her boat. 

And guided it along ; 
With broken voice she strove to raise 

A melancholy song. 

None watched the lonely Indian girl — 

She passed unmarked of all, 
Until they saw her slight canoe 

Approach the mighty Fall ! 

Upright, within that slender boat 

They saw the pale girl stand, 
Her dark hair streaming far behind — 

Upraised her desperate hand. 

The air is filled with shriek and shout — 

They call, but call in vain ; 
The boat amid the waters dashed — 

'Twas never seen again ! 

Letitia E. Landon. 

IN SCHOOL DAYS. 

STILL sits the school-house by the road, 
A ragged beggar sunning ; 
Around it still the sumachs grow, 
And blackberry vines are running. 

Within, the master's desk is seen. 

Deep scarred by raps official ; 
The warping floor, the battered seats, 

The jackknife's carved initial; 

The charcoal frescoes on its wall ; 

Its door's worn sill, betraying 
The feet that, creeping slow to school. 

Went storming out to playing. 

Long years ago a winter sun 

Shone over it at setting; 
Lit up its western window-panes. 

And low eaves' icy fretting. 

It touched the tangled golden curls, 
And brown eyes, full of grieving, 

Of one who still her steps delayed 
When all the school were leaving. 

For near her stood the little boy, 

Her childish favor singled. 
His cap pulled low upon a face 

Where pride and shame were mingled. 

Pushing with restless feet the snow 

To right and left, he lingered ; 
As restlessly her tiny hands 

The blue-checked a]:)ron fingered. 

He saw her lift her eyes ; he felt 

The soft hands' light caressing, 
And heard the trembling of her voice, 

As if a fault confessing: 



NARRATIVES IN VERSE. 



215 



"I'm sorry that I spelt the word ; 

I hate to go above you, 
Because " — the brown eyes lower fell — 

" Because, you see, I love you ! " 

Still memory tO a gray-haired man 
That sweet child-face is showing. 

Dear girl ! the grasses on her grave 
Have forty years lieen growing. 

Hj lives to learn in life's hard school, 

How few who pass above him 
Lament their triumph and his loss. 

Like her — because they love him. 

J. G. Whittier. 

THE KING AND THE COTTAGE. 

The following lines breathe a sentiment kindred to that of 
tlie gifted author's far-famed poem entitled, " Home, Sweet 
Home." The one is the companion of the other, and both 
are tributes to domestic joys almost without a rival. 

THERE once was a king on his throne of gold 
seated ; 
His courtiers in smiles were all standing 
around ; 
They heard him with news of fresh victories 
greeted ; 
The skies with the joy of his people resound ; 
And all thought this king was most thoroughly 

blest, 
Till sadly he sighed forth his secret unrest : 
" How much more delight to my bosom 'twould 

bring, 
To feel myself happy, than know myself king ! " 

"Ah what ! while such power and such treasure 

possessing," 
(A courtier, astonished, stept forward and cried), 
" Could fortune bestow in exchange for the bless- 

ing?" 
And thus to the courtier the king straight replied : 
"Health, a cottage, few friends, and a heart all my 

own 
Were heaven in exchange for the cares of a throne ! " 
" Then live if no longer to empire you cling, 
Seek these, and be happv, and let mg be the king ! " 

The king gave the courtier liis throne and de- 
scended ; 
The longed for delights of retirement to prove. 
And now for the first time around him there 
blended 
The smiles of contentment, and friendship and 
love ; 
But the courtier soon came to the king in his cot ; 
"Oh no ! " said the king, "I'll no more change 

my lot ! 
Think not, that once freed from the diadem's 

sting, 
I'll give up my cottage and stoop to be king ! " 
John Howard Payne. 



UNCLE JO. 

I HAVE in memory a little story. 
That few indeed would rhyme about but me; 
'Tis not of love, nor fame, nur yet of glory. 
Although a little colored with the three — 
In very truth, I think as much, perchance, 
As moit tales disembodied from romance. 

Jo lived about the village, and was neighbor 
To every one who had hard work to do ; 

If he possessed a genius, 'twas for labor 

Most people thought, but there were one or two 

Who sometimes said, when he aro.se to go, 

" Come in again and see iis. Uncle Jo !" 

The " Uncle " was a courtesy they gave — 
And felt they could afford to give to him, 

Just as the master makes of some good slave 
An "Aunt Jemima," or an "Uncle Jim;" 

And of this dubious kindness Jo was glad — 

Poor fellow, it was all he ever had ! 

A mile or so away he had a brother,' — 

A rich, proud man, that people didn't hire; 

But Jo had neither sister, wife nor mother. 
And baked his corn cake, at his cabin fire, 

After the day's work, hard for you and me, 

But he was never tired — how could he be? 

They called him dull, but he had eyes of quickness 
For everybody that he could befriend ; 

Said one and all, " How kind he is in sickness," 
But there, of course, his goodness had an end. 

Another praise there was, might have been given. 

For, one or more days out of every seven. 

With his old pickaxe swung across his shoulder. 
And downcast eyes, and slow and sober tread. 

He sought the place of graves, and each beholder 
Wondered and asked each other, who was dead ? 

But when he digged all day, nobody thought 

That he had done a whit more than he ought. 

At length, one winter when the sunbeams slanted 
Faintly and cold across the churchyard snow. 

The bell tolled out — alas ! a grave was wanted, 
And all looked anxiously for Uncle Jo ; 

His spade stood there, against his own roof-tree. 

There was liis pickaxe, too, but where was he ? 

They called and called again, but no replying; 

Smooth at the window, and about the door 
The snow in cold and heavy drifts was lying — 

He didn't need the daylight any more. 
One shook him roughly, and another said, 
" As true as preaching, Uncle Joe is dead !" 

And when they wrapped him in the linen, fairer 
And finer, too, than he had worn till then. 

They found a picture — haply of the sharer 

Of sunny hope, some time ; or where or when. 

They did not care to know, l;ut closed his eyes, — 

And placed it in the coffin where he lies ! 



NARRATIVES IN VERSE. 



None wrote his epitaph, nor saw the beauty 
Of the pure love that reached into the grave, 

Nor how, in unobtrusive ways of duty 

He kept, despite the dark ; but men less brave 

Have left great names, while not a willow bends 

Above /as dust — poor Jo, he had no friends ! 




o 



THE NEWSBOY'S DEBT. 

NLY last year, at Christmas time, 
While pacing down a city street, 
I saw a tiny, ill-clad boy — ■ 

One of the thousands that we meet- 



As ragged as a boy could be. 

With half a cap, with one good shoe ; 
Just patches to keep out the wind — 

I know the wind blew keenly, too ; 

A newsboy, with a newsboy's lungs, 
A square Scotch face and honest brow, 

And eyes that liked to smile so well 
They had not yet forgotten how ; 

A newsboy, hawking his last sheets 
With loud persistence. Now and then 



Stopping to beat his stiffened hands, 
And trudging bravely on again. 

Dodging about among the crowd, 

Shouting his " Extras " o'er and o'er, 

Pausing by whiles to cheat the wind 
Within some alley, by some door. 

At last he stopped— six papers left, 
Tucked hopelessly beneath his 
arm — 
To eye a fruiter's outspread store, 
And products from some country 
farm. 

He stood and gazed with wistful 

face. 

All a child's longing in his eyes; 

Then started, as I touched his arm. 

And turned in quick, mechanic 

wise. 

Raised his torn cap with purple 
hands, 
Said, "Paper, sir? Sun, Star, 
Times !" 
And brushed away a freezing tear 
That marked his cheek with frosty 
rimes. 

" How many have you ? Nevermind — 
Don't stop to count — I'll take 
them all ; 
And when you pass my office here 
With stock on hand, give me a 
call." 

He thanked me with a broad Scotch 

smile, 

A look half wondering and half 

glad. 

I fumbled for the proper " change," 

And said, "You seem a little lad 

gj " To rough it in the streets like this." 

" I'm ten years old this Christ- 
mas time ! ' ' 
' Your name?" "JimHanley." "Here's a bill — 
I've nothing else, but this one dime — 

' Five dollars. When you get it changed 
Come to my office — that's the place. 
Now wait a bit, there's time enough : 
You need not run a headlong race. 

' Where do you live?" " Most anywhere. 
We hired a stable-loft to-day, 
Me and two others." " And you thought 
The fruiter's window pretty, hey? 

'And you are cold?" " Aye, just a bit. 

I don'tmind cold." "Why, that is strange I" 
He smiled and pulled his ragged cap. 
And darted off to get the " change." 



NARRATIVES IN VERSE. 



217 



So, witli half unconscious sigh, 

I sought my office desk again. 
An hour or more my busy wits 

Found work enough witli book and pen. 

But when the mantel clock struck five 

I started with a sudden thought, 
For there beside my hat and cloak 

Lay those six papers I had bought. 

" Why, Where's the boy, and where's the 'change ' 
He should liave brought an hour ago ? 
Ah, well ! ah, well ! they're all alike ! 
I was a fool to tempt him so ! 

" Dishonest ! Well, I might have known ; 
And yet his face seemed candid, too. 
He would have earned the difference 
If he had brought me what was due." 

Just two days later, as I sat. 

Half dozing in my office chair, 
I heard a timid knock, and called. 

In my brusque fashion, " Who's there ?" 

An urchin entered, barely seven — 

The same Scotch face, the same blue eyes — 
And stood half doubting, at the door, 

Abashed at my forbidding guise. 

" Sir, if you please, my brother Jim — 

The one you gave the bill, you know — 
He couldn't bring the money, sir, 
Because his back was hurted so. 

" He didn't mean to keep the ' change,' 
He got runned over up the street ; 
One wheel went right across his back, 
And t'other fore-wheel mashed his feet. 

" They stopped the horses just in time. 
And then they took him up for dead ; 
And all that day and yesterday 
He wasn't rightly in his head. 

" They took him to the hospital — 

One of the newsboys knew 'twas Jim — 
And I went too, because, you see, 
We two are brothers, I and him. 

" He had that money in his hand, 
And never saw it any more. 
Indeed, he didn't mean to steal ! 
He never lost a cent before. 

" He was afraid that you might think 
He meant to keep it any way. 
This morning, when they brought him to, 
He cried because he couldn't pay. 

" He made me fetch his jacket here ; 
It's torn and dirtied pretty bad, 
It's only fit to sell for rags. 

But then you know it's all he had ! 



" When he gets well — it wont be long — 
If you will call the money lent. 
He says he'll work his fingers off 
But what he'll pay you every cent." 

And then he cast a rueful glance 
At the soiled jacket, where it lay, 
" No, no, my boy ! Take back the coat. 
Your brother's badly hurt, you say? 

" Where did they take him ? Just run out 
And hail a cab, then wait for me. 
Why, I would give a thousand coats, 
And pounds, for such a boy as he !" 

A half hour after this we stood 

Together in the crowded vifards. 
And the nurse checked the hasty steps 

That fell too loudly on the boards. 

I thought him smiling in his sleep. 

And scarce believed her when she said, 

Smoothing away the tangled hair 

From brow and cheek, " The boy is dead !" 

Dead ? Dead so soon ? How fair he looked. 
One streak of sunsliine on his hair. 

Poor lad ! Well, it is warm in heaven ; 
No need of " change" and jackets there. 

And something rising in my throat 

Made it so hard for me to speak, 
I turned away, and left a tear 

Lying upon his sunburned cheek. 

Helen Hunt Jackson. 

SCOTT AND THE VETERAN. 

AN old and crippled veteran to the War De- 
partment came, 
He sought the Chief who led hiai on many 
a field of fame — 
The Chief who shouted "Forward!" where'er 

his banner rose, 
And bore its stars in triumph behind the flying 
foes. 

" Have you forgotten. General," the battered 

soldier cried, 
" The days of eighteen hundred twelve, when I 
was at your side ? 
Have you forgotten Johnson, who fought at 

Lundy's Lane ? 
'Tis true, I'm old and pensioned, but I want 
to fight again." 

" Have I forgotten?" said the Chief: '-my brave 

old soldier, no ! 
.4nd here's the hand I gave you then, and let it 

tell you so ; 
But you have done your share, my friend ; you're 

crippled, old and gray. 
And we have need of younger arms and fresher 

blood to-day." 



218 



NARRATIVES IN VERSE. 



" But, General," cried the veteran, a flush upon 

his brow, 
" The very men who fought with us, they say, are 
traitors now : 
They've torn the flag of Lundy's Lane, our old 

red, white and blue, 
And while a drop of blood is left, I'll show that 
drop is true. 

" I'm not so weak but I can strike, and I've a good 

old gun, 
To get the range of traitors' hearts, and prick 

them, one by one. 
Your Minnie rifles and such arms, it ain't worth 

while to try ; 
I couldn't get the hang o' them, but I'll keep 

my powder dry !" 

"God bless you, comrade!" said the Chief, — 

" God bless your loyal heart ! 
But younger men are in the field, and claim to 

have a part ; 
They'll plant our sacred banner firni, in each 

rebellious town, 
And woe, henceforth, to any hand that dares to 

pull it down !" 

"But, General!" — still persisting, the weeping 

veteran cried, 
" I'm young enough to follow, so long as you're 
my guide ; 
And some you know, must bite the dust, and 

that, at least, can I ; 
So give the young ones place to fight, but me a 
place to die ! 

" If they should fire on Pickens, let the colonel in 

command 
Put me upon the rampart with the flag-staff in 

my hand ; 
No odds how hot the cannon-smoke, or how the 

shell may fly, 
I'll hold the stars and stripes aloft, and hold 

them till I die ! 

" I'm ready. General ; so you let a post to me be 
given, 
Wliere Washington can look at me, as he looks 

down from heaven. 
And say to Putnam at his side, or may be, 
General Wayne — 
" There stands old Billy Johnson, who fought at 
Lundy's Lane !' 

" And when the fight is raging hot, before the 
traitors fly, 
When shell and ball are screeching, and burst- 
ing in the sky, 
If any shot should pierce through me, and lay 

me on my face. 
My soul would go to Washington's, and not to 
Arnold's place !" 

Bayard Taylor. 



BEN FISHER. 

BEN FISHER had finished his hard day'swork. 
And he sat at his cottage door ; 
His good wife, Kate, sat by his side, 
And the moonlight danced on the floor — 
The moonlight danced on the cottage floor, 

Her beams were clear and bright 
As when he and Kate, twelve years before, 
Talked love in her mellow light. 

Ben Fisher had never a pipe of clay, 

And never a dram drank he ; 
So he loved at home with his wile to stay. 

And they chatted right merrily ; 
Right merrily chatted they on, the while 

Her babe slept on her breast, 
While a chubby rogue, with rosy smile, 

On his father's knee found rest. 

Ben told her how fast the potatoes grew, 

And the corn in the lower field ; 
And the wheat on the hill was grown to seed, 

And promised a glorious yield ; — 
A glorious yield in the harvest time. 

And his orchard was doing fair ; 
His sheep and his stock were in their prime, 

His farm all in good repair. 

Kate said that her garden looked beautiful. 

Her fowls and her calves were fat ; 
Tliat the butter that Tommy that morning churned, 

Would buy him a Sunday hat ; 
That Jenny, for Pa, a new shirt had made, 

And 'twas done too by the rule ; 
That Neddy the garden could nicely spade; 

And Ann was ahead at school. 

Ben slowly raised his toil-worn hand 
Through his locks of grayish brown ; 

" I tell you, Kate, what I think," said he, 
" We're the happiest iolks in town." 

" I know," said Kate, " that we all work hard- 
Work and health go together, I've found ; 

For there's Mrs. Bell does not work at all, 
And she's sick the whole year round. 

" They're worth their thousands, so people say, 

But I ne'er saw them happy yet; 
'Twould not be me that w^ould take their gold, 

And live in a constant fret; 
My humble home has a light within, 

Mrs. Bell's gold could not buy — 
Six healthy children, a merry heart, 

And a husband's love-lit eye." 

I fancied a tear was in Ben's eye — 

The moon shone brighter and clearer, 
I could not tell why the man should cry, 

But he hitched up to Kate still nearer ; 
He leaned his head on her shoulder there. 

And he took her hand in his — 
I guess — (though I looked at the moon just then). 

That he left on her lips a kiss. 

Francis Dana Gage. 



NARRATIVES IN VERSE. 



219 



THE SEA-KING'S GRAVE. 

HIGH over the wild sea-border, on the fur- 
thest downs to the West, 
Is the green grave-mound of the Norse- 
man, with the yew-tree grove on its crest. 
And I heard in the winds his story, as they leapt 

up salt from the wave. 
And tore at the creaking branches that grow from 

the sea-king's grave ; 
Some son of the old-world Vikings, the wild sea- 
wandering lords, 
Who sailed inasnakc-prowed 

galley, with a terror 

of twenty swords. 
From the fiords of the sunless 

winter, thev came on 

an icy blast, 
Till over the Avholc world's 

seaboard the shadow 

of Odin passed, 
Till they sped to the inland 

waters and under the 

Southland skies, 
And stared on the puny 

princes with their 

blue victorious eyes. 
And they said he was old and 

royal, and a warrior 

all his days, 
But the king who had slain 

his brother lived yet in the island ways; 
And he came from a hundred battles, and died in 

his last wild quest, 
For he said, " I will have my vengeance, and then 

I will take my rest. ' ' 

He had passed on his homeward journey, and the 

king of the isles was dead ; 
He had drunken the draft of triumph, and his cup 

was tne isle king's head ; 
And he spoke of the song and feasting, and the 

gladness of things to be, 
And three days over the waters they rowed on a 

waveless sea; 
Till a small cloud rose to the shoreward, and a 

gust broke out of the cloud. 
And the spray beat over the rowers, and the mur- 
mur of winds was loud 
Witli the voice of the far-off thunders, till the 

shuddering air grew warm. 
And the day was as dark as at even, and the wild 

god rode on the storm. 
But the old man laughed in the thunder as he set 

his casque on his brow. 
And he waved his sword in the lightning and 

clung to the jiainted prow. 
And a shaft from the storm-god's quiver flashed 

out from the flame-flushed skies, 
Rang down on his war-worn harness and gleamed 

in his fiery eyes, 



And his mail and his crested helmet, and his hair 

and his beard burned red ; 
And they said, "It is Odin calls;" and he fell, 

and they found him dead. 

So here, in his war guise armored, they laid him 

down to hia rest. 
In his casque with the reindeer antlers, and the 

long grey beard on his breast; 
His bier was the spoil of the islands, with a sail for 

a shroud beneath. 




And an oar of his blood-red galley, and his battle- 
brand in the sheath ; 
And they buried his bow beside him, and planted 

the grove of yew, 
For the grave of a mighty archer, one tree for 

each of his crew; 
Where the flowerless cliffs are sheerest, where the 

sea-birds circle and swarm. 
And the rocks are at war with the waters, with 

their jagged grey teeth in the storm : 
And the huge Atlantic billows sweep in, and the 

mists enclose 
The hill with the grass-grown mound where the 

Norseman's yew-tree grows. 

Rennell Rodd. 

THE HEATHEN CHINEE. 

TARLE MOUNTAIN, 1S70. 

WHICH I wish to remark— 
And my language is plain — 
That for ways that are dark, 
And for tricks that are vain, 
The heathen Chinee is peculiar, 
Which the same I would rise to explain. 

Ah Sin was his name; 

And I shall not denv 
In regard to the same 

What that name might imply. 



220 



NARRATIVES IN VERSE. 



But his smile it was pensive and child-like. 
As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye. 

It was August the third, 

And quite soft was the skies; 
Which ft might be inferred 
That Ah Sin was likewise; 
Yet he played it that day upon William 
And me in a way I despise. 

Which we had a small game, 
And Ah Sin took a hand: 
It was euchre. The same 
He did not understand; 
But he smiled as he sat by the table, 
With a smile that was child-like and bland. 

Yet the cards they were stocked 

In a way that I grieve. 
And my feelings were shocked 
At the state of Nye's sleeve, 
Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers, 
And the same with intent to deceive. 

But the hands that were played 

By that heathen Chinee, 
And the points that he made 
Were quite frightful to see — 
Till at last he put down a right bower. 
Which the same Nye had dealt unto me. 

Then I looked up at Nye, 
And he gazed upon me; 
And he rose with a sigh. 
And said, "Can this be? 
We are ruined by Chinese cheap labor," 
And he went for that heathen Chinee. 

In the scene that ensued 
I did not take a hand. 
But the floor it was strewed 
Like the leaves on the strand 
With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding. 
In the game he "did not understand." 

In his sleeves, which were long. 

He had twenty- four packs — 
Which was coming it strong, 
Yet I state but the facts; 
And we found on his nails, which were taper, 
What is frequent in tapers — that's wax. 

Which is why I remark, 

And my language is plain, 
That for ways that are dark. 
And for tricks that are vain. 
The heathen Chinee is peculiar, 
Which the same I am free to maintain. 

Bret Harte. 



LOVED ONE WAS NOT THERE. 

WE gathered round the festive board, 
I'he crackling fagot blazed ; 
Hut few would taste the wine that poured. 
Or join the song we raised : 
For there was now a glass unfilled — 

A favored place to spare ; 
All eyes were dull, all hearts were chilled — 
The loved one was not there. 

No hapijy laugh was heard to ring. 

No form would lead the dance; 
A smothered sorrow seemed to fling 

A gloom in every glance. 
The grave had closed upon a brow, 

The honest, bright, and fair; 
We missed our mate, we mourned the blow — 

The loved one was not there. 

Eliza Cook. 

THE GUARD'S STORY. 

WE were on picket, sir, he and I, 
Under the blue of a midnight sky 
In the wilderness, where the night 
bird's song 
Gives back an echo all night long. 
Where the silver stars as they come and pass 
Leave stars of dew on tlie tangled grass. 
And the rivers sing in the silent hours 
Their sweetest songs to the list'ning flowers. 

He'd a slender form and a girlish face. 
That seemed in the army out of plate, 
Though he smiled as I told him so that day, — 
Aye, smiled and flushed in a girlish way 
That 'minded me of a face I knew, 
In a distant village, 'neath the blue ; 
When our army marched, at the meadow bars, 
She met and kissed me 'neath the stars. 

Before us the river silent ran, 

And we'd been placed to guard the ford ; 
A dangerous place, and we'd jump and start 

Whenever a leaf by the wind was stirred. 
Behind tis the army lay encamped, 

'Iheir camp-fires burned into the niglft. 
Like bonfires built upon the hills, 

And set by demon hands alight. 

Somehow, whenever I looked that way, 

I seemed to see her face again, 
Kind o' hazv like, as you've seen a star 

A peepin' out through a misty rain ! 
And once, believe, as I thought of her, 

I thought aloud, and I called him Bess, 
When he started quick, and smiling, said, 

"You dream of some one at home, I guess." 

'Twas j'lst in the flusli of the morning light. 
We stopped for a chat at the end of our beat,. 



NARRAril'ES IN VERSE. 



221 



When a rifle flashed at the river's bar.".., 
And bathed in blood he sank at my feet ; 

All of a sudden I knew her iheii, 

And kneeling, I kissed the girlish face ; 

And raised her head from the tangled grass, 
To find on my breast its resting place. 

\Vhen the corporal came to change the guard, 

.\t six in the morning, he found me there, 
^Vith Bessie's dead form clasped in my arms, 

And hid in my heart her dying prayer. 
They buried her under the moaning pines, 

And never a man in the army knew 
That Willie Searles and my girl were one. 

You're the first I've told — the story's new. 

THE OVERLAND TRAIN. 

THE Plains! The shouting drivers at the wheel ; 
The crash of leather whips ; the crush and 
roll 
Of wheels ; the groan of yokes and grinding steel 
And iron chain, and lo ! at last the whole 
Vast line, that reached as if to touch the goal. 
Began to stretch and stream away and wind 
Toward the west, as if with one control : 
Then hope loomed fair, and home lay far behind ; 
Before, the boundless plain, and fiercest of their 
kind. 

Some hills at last began to lift and break ; 
Some streams began to fail of wood and tide. 
The sombre plain began betime to take 
A hue of weary brown, and wild and wide 
It stretched its naked brt-ast on every side. 
A babe was heard at last to cry for bread 
Amid the deserts ; cattle lowed and died, 
And dying men went by with broken tread. 
And left a long black serpent line of wreck and 
dead. 

They rose by night ; they struggled on and on 
As thin and still as ghosts ; then here and there 
Beside the dusty way before the dawn 
Men silent laid them down in their despair, 
And died. But woman! AVoman, frail as fair! 
May man have strength to give to you your due; 
You filtered not, nor murmured anywhere, 
You held your babes, held to your course, and 

you 
Bore on through burning hell your double burthens 

through. 

The dust arose, a long dim line like smoke 
From out a riven earth. The wheels went by. 
The thousand feet in harness and in yoke, 
They tore the ways of ashen alkali, 
And desert winds blew sudden, swift and dry. 
The dust ! it sat upon and filled the train ! 
It seemed to fret and fill the very sky. 
I.o ! dust upon the beasts, the tent, the plain. 
And dust, alas ! on breasts that rose not up again. 



My brave and unremembered heroes, rest; 
You fell in silence, silent lie and sleep. 
Sleep on unsung, for this, 1 say, were best ; 
The world to-day has hardly time to weep ; 
The world to-claj' will hardly care to keep 
In heart her plain and unpretending brave ; 
The desert winds, they whistle by and sweep 
About you ; browned and russet grasses wave 
Along a thousand leagues that lie one common 
grave. 

Joaquin Miller. 

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 

ONE more unfortunate. 
Weary of breath, 
Rashly importunate, 
Gone to her death ! 

Take her up tenderly, 
Lift her with care; 
Fashioned so slenderly — • 
Young, and so fair ! 

Look at her garments 
Clinging like cerements. 
Whilst the wave constantly 
Drips from her clothing; 
Take her up instantly. 
Loving, not loathing ! 

Touch her not scornfully! 
Think of her mournfully, 
Gently and humanly — 
Not of the stains of her; 
All that remains of her 
Now is pure womanly. 

Make no deep scrutiny 
Into her mutiny, 
Rash and undutiful; 
Past all dishonor, 
Death has left on her 
Only the beautiful. 

Still, for all slips of hers — 
One of Eve's family — 
Wipe those poor lips of hers. 
Oozing so clammily. 

Loop up her tresses 
Escaped from the comb — 
Her fair auburn tresses — 
AVhilst wonderment guesses 
Where was her home ? 

Who was her father ? 
AVho was her mother? 
Had she a sister ? 
Had she a brother? 
Or was there a dearer one 
Still, and a nearer one 
Yet, than all other? 



222 



NARRATIVES IN VERSE. 



Alas! for the rarity 
Of Christian charity 
Under the sun ! 
O ! it was pitiful ! 
Near a whole city full, 
Home she had none. 

Sisterly, brotherl\. 
Fatherly, motheily 
Feelings had changed — 
Love, by harsh evidence, 
Thrown from its eminence; 
Even God's providence 
Seeming estranged. 

Where the lamps quiver 

So far ill the river, 

With many a light 

From window and casement, 

From garret to basement. 

She stood, with amazement, 

Houseless by night. 

The bleak wind of March 
Made her tremble and shiver ; 
But not the dark arch. 
Or the black flowing river; 
Mad from life's history. 
Glad to death's mystery, 
Swift to be hurled 
Anywhere, anywhere 
Out of the world ! 

In she plimged boldly — 
No matter how coldly 
The rough river ran — 
Over the brink of it ! 
Picture it — think of it ! 
Dissolute man ! 
Lave in it, drink of it, 
Tiien if you can ! 

Take her up tenderly — 
Lift her with care ! 
Fashioned so slenderly — 
Young, and so fair ! 

Ere her limbs, frigidly, 
Stiffen too rigidly, 
Decently, kindly. 
Smooth and compose them ; 
And her eyes, close them. 
Staring so blindly ! 



Dreadfully staring 
Through muddy impurity. 
As when with the daring 
Last look of despairing, 
Fixed on futurity. 

Perishing gloomily, 
Spurred by contumely, 
Cold inhumanity, 
Burning insanity 
Into her rest ! 
Cross her hands humbly, 
As if praying dumbly, 
Over her breast ! 

Owning her weakness. 
Her evil behavior. 
And leaving, with meekness. 
Her sins to her Saviour ! 

Tho.\i.\s Hood. 

ARABELLA AND SALLY ANN. 

ARABELLA was a schoolgirl. 
So was Sally Ann. 
Hasty pudding can't be thicker 
Than two schoolgirls can. 

These were thick as schoolgirls can be. 

Deathless love they swore,' 
Vowed that naught on earth should part them- 

One forever more. 

They grew up as schoolgirls will do. 

Went to parties, too. 
And as oft before has happened, 

Suitors came to woo. 

But as fate or luck would have it, 

One misguided man 
Favored blue-eyed Arabella 

More than Sally Ann. 

And, of course, it made no difference 

That the laws are such 
That he could not wed two women. 

Though they wished it much. 

So a coolness rose between them. 

And the cause — a man. 
Cold was Arabella — very; 

Colder Sally Ann. 

Now they call each other " creature ; " 

What is still more sad — 
Bella, though she won the treasure. 

Wishes Sally had. 

Paul Carson. 



FAMOUS BALLADS, LEGENDS 



AND 



NATIONAL AIRS. 




THE DAMSEL OF PERU. 



HERE olive leaves were 

twinkling in every wind 

that blew, 
There sat beneath the 

pleasant shade a damsel 

of Peru. 
Betwixt the slender 

boughs, as they opened 

to the air, 
Came glimpses of her 

ivory neck and of her 

glossy hair ; 
And sweetly rang her sil- 
ver voice, within that 

shady nook, 
As from the shrubby glen 
is heard the sound of hidden brook. 

*Tis a song of love and valor, in the noble Span- 
ish tongue. 

That once upon the sunny plains of old Castile 
was sung ; 

When, from their mountain holds, on the Moor- 
ish rout below, 

Had rushed the Christians like a flood, and swept 
away the foe. 

Awhile that melody is still, and then breaks forth 
anew 

A wilder rhyme, a livelier note, of freedom and 
Peru. 

For she has bound the sword to a youthful lover's 

side, 
And sent him to the war the day she should have 

been his bride, 
And bade him bear a faithful heart to battle for 

the right, 
And held the fountains of her eyes till he was out 

of sight. 
Since the jiarting kiss was given, six weary months 

are tied, 
And yet the foe is in the land, and blood must 

yet be shed. 

A white hand parts the branches, a lovely face 
Jooks forth, 



And bright dark eyes gaze steadfastly and sadly 

toward the north. 
Thou look'st in vain, sweet maiden, the sharpest 

sight would fail 
To spy a sign of human life abroad in all the 

vale ; 
For the noon is coming on. and the sunbeams 

fiercely beat, 
And the silent hius and forest-tops seem reeling 

in the heat. 

That white hand is withdrawn, that fair sad face 

is gone, 
But the music of that silver voice is flowing 

sweetly on, 
Not as of late, in cheerful tones, but mournfully 

and low — 
A ballad of a tender maid heart-broken long 

ago, 
Of him who died in battle, the youthful and the 

brave, 
And her who died of sorrow, upon his early 

grave. 

But see, along that mountain's slope, a fiery horse- 
man ride ; 

Mark his torn plume, his tarnished belt, the sabre 
at his side. 

His spurs are buried rowel deep, he rides with 
loosened rein, 

There's blood upon his charger's flank and foam 
upon the mane ; 

He speeds him towards the olive-grove, along that 
shaded hill : 

God shield the helpless maiden there, if he should 
mean her ill ! 

And suddenly that song has ceased, and suddenly 

I hear 
A shriek sent up amid the shade, a shriek — but not 

of fear. 
For tender accents follow, and tenderer pauses 

speak 
The overflow of gladness, when words are all too 

weak : 
" I lay my good sword at thy feet, for now Peru 

is free. 
And I am come to dwell beside the olive-grove 

with thee." 

W. C. Bryant. 
223 



224 



FAMOUS BALLADS AND NATIONAL AIRS. 



THE AFRICAN CHIEF. 

The story of the African Chief related in this ballad is 
well known. The chief was a warrior of majestic stature, 
brother of the king of the Solima nation. He had been 
taken in battle and was brought in chains for sale to the 
Rio Pongas, where he was exhibited in the market-place, 
his ankles still adorned with the massive rings of gold which 
Ve wore when captured. The refusal of his captor to listen 
to his oflers of ransom Urove him mad and he dieda maniac. 

CHAINED in the market-place he stood, 
A man of giant frame, 
Amid the gathering multitude 
That shrunk to hear his name — 
All stern of look and .strong of limb 

His dark eye on the ground : — 
And silently they gazed on him, 
As on a lion bound. 

Vainly, but well, that chief had fotight. 

He was a captive now, 
Yet pride, that fortune humbles not, 

Was written on his brow. 
The scars his dark broad bosom wore, 

Showed warrior true and brave ; 
A prince among his tribe before. 

He could not be a slave. 

Then to his conqueror he spake — 

'• My brother is a king ; 
Undo this necklace from my neck. 

And take this bracelet ring. 
And send me where my brother reigns. 

And I will fill thy hands 
With store of ivory from the plains. 

And gold-dust from the sands." 

" Not for thy ivory nor thy gold 

Will I unbind thy chain ; 
That bloody hand shall never hold 

The battle-spear again. 
A price th)' nation never gave 

Shall yet be jiaid for thee ; 
For thou shalt be the Christian's slave. 

In lands beyond the sea." 

Then wept the warrior chief, and bade 

To shred his locks away ; 
And one by one, each heavy braid 

Before the victor lay. 
Thick were the platted locks, and long. 

And closely hidden there 
Shone many a wedge of gold among 

The dark and crisped hair. 

' Look, feast thy greedy eye with gold 

Long kept for sorest need : 
Take it — thou askest sums untold. 

And say that I am freed. 
Take it — my wife, the long, long day. 

Weeps by the cocoa-tree, 
And my young children leave their play, 

And ask in vain for me." 



" I take thy gold — but I have made 

Thy fetters fast and strong, 
And ween that by the cocoa shade 

Thy wife will wait thee long." 
Strong was the agony that shook 

The captive's frame to hear, 
And the proud meaning of his look 

Was changed to mortal fear. 
His heart was broken — crazed his brain : 

At once his eye grew wild ; 
He struggled fiercely with his chain. 

Whispered, and wept, and smiled; 
Yet wore not long those fatal bands. 

And once, at shut of day, 
They drew him forth upon the sands, 

The foul hyena's prey. W. C. Bryant. 

THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS. 

LAST night, among his fellow roughs, 
He jested, quaffed, and swore; 
A drimken private of the Buffs, 
Who never looked before. 
To-day, beneath the foeman's frown, 

He stands in Elgin's place. 
Ambassador from Britain's crown. 

And type of all her race. 
Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught, 

Bewildered, and alone, 
A heart, with English instinct fraught, 

He yet can call his own. 
Ay, tear his body limb from limb, 

Bring cord or axe or flame. 
He only knows that not through him 

Shall England come to shame. 
Far Kentish hop-fields round him seemed, 

Like dreams, to come and go ; 
Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleamed, 

One sheet of living snow; 
The smoke above his father's door 

In gray soft eddxings hung; 
Must he then watch it rise no more, 

Doomed by himself so young? 
Yes, honor calls ! — with strength like steel 

He put the vision by; 
Let dusky Indians whine and kneel, 

An English lad must die. 
And thus, with eyes that would not shrink, 

With knee to man unbent, 
Unfaltering on its dreadful brink. 

To his red grave he went. 
Vain mightiest fleets of iron framed, 

Vain those all-shattering guns. 
Unless proud England keep untamed 

The strong heart of her sons ; 
So let his name through Europe ring — 

A man of mean estate, 
Who died, as firm as Sjiarta's king. 

Because his soul was great. 

Sir Francis H. Doyle. 



FAMOUS BALLADS AND NATIONAL AIRS. 



225 



A MAID OF NORMANDY. 



WITHIN a sheltered mossy glade, 
Hid in a mighty forest's shade, 
There first it was I chanced to see 
My little maid of Normandy. 

/was a painter, poor, obscure; 
S/ie was a peasant, fair and pure; 
And oh ! she was so dear to me — 
My little maid of Normandy. 



And I was all the world to her. 

Scarce ever from my side she'd stir, 

But watched me paint with childish glee— • 

My little maid of Normandy. 

Alas ! alas ! there came a day 
When all the sunshine died away ! 
They buried her beside the sea — 
My little maid of Normandy. 




And time went on, and hour by hour. 
And day by day love gained in power 
Till she was all the world to me — 
My little maid of Normandy. 



And now I roam the will world o'er, 
But memory haunts me evermore ! 
One love alone for me can be — 
My little maid of Normandy. 

George Weatherly. 
BORDER BALLAD. 



MARC'H, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale ! 
Wliy the de'il dinna ye march forward in 
order? 
March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale ! 
All the Blue Bonnets are over the Border! 

10 



Many a banner spread 

Flutters above your head. 
Many a crest that is famous in story ! — 

Mount and make ready, then. 

Sons of the mountain glen, 
Fight for the queen and our old Scottish glory ! 



226 



FAMOUS BALLADS AND NATIONAL AIRS. 



Come from the hills where your hirsels are grazing; 

Come from the glen of the buck and the roe; 
Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing ; 
Come with the buckler, the lance and the bow. 
Trumpets are sounding ; 
War-steeds are bounding ; 



Stand to your arms, and march in good order, 

England shall many a day 

Tell of the bloody fray, 
When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border. 

Sir Walter Scott. 



SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT. 



I OUTHWARD with fleet of ice 
J Sailed the corsair Death ; 

' Wild and fast blew the blast, 

And the east wind was his breath. 



Eastward from oampoDcUo 
Sir Humphrey Gilbert sailed; 

Three days or more seaward he bore, 
Then, alas! the land-wind failed. 




His lordly ships of ice 

Glistened in the sun ; 
On each side, like pennons wide, 

Flashing crystal streamlets run. 

His sails of white sea-mist 
Dripped with silver rain ; 

But where he passed there were cast 
Leaden shadows o'er the main. 



Alas ! the land-wind failed. 
And ice-cold grew the night; 

And never more, on sea or shore, 
Should Sir Humphrey see the light. 

He sat upon the deck. 

The Book was in his hand ; 

Do not fear ! Heaven is as near," 
He said, " by water as by land!" 



FAMOUS BALLADS AND NATIONAL AIRS. 



227 



In the first watch of the night, 

Without a signal's sound, 
Out of the sea, mysteriously. 

The fleet of Death rose all around. 

The moon and the evening star 

Were hanging in the shrouds ; 
Every mast, as it passed, 

Seemed to rake the passing clouds. 

They grappled with their prize, 

At midnight black and cold ! 
As of a rock vi^as the shock ; 

Heavily the ground-swell rolled. 

Southward through day and dark, 

They drift in close embrace, 
With mist and rain, to the Spanish Main ; 

Yet there seems no change of place. 

Southward, forever southward. 
They drift through dark and day; 

And like a dream, in the Gulf-Stream 
Sinking, vanish all away. 

H. W. Longfellow. 

THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 

THE Pilgrim Fathers, where are they? 
The waves that brought them o'er 
Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray. 
As they break along the shore — 
Still roll in the bay as they rolled that day 

When the Mayflower moored below, 
When the sea around was black with storms. 
And white the shore with snow. 

The mists that wrapped the pilgrim's sleep 

Still brood upon the tide ; 
And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep. 

To stay its waves of pride; 
But the snow-white sail that he gave to the gale 

When the heavens looked dark, is gone ; 
As an angel's wing through an opening cloud 

Is seen, and then withdrawn. 

The pilgrim exile — sainted name ! 

The hill, whose icy brow 
Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame, 

In the morning's flame burns now. 
And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night 

On the hillside and the sea. 
Still lies where he laid his houseless head; 

But the pilgrim, where is he ? 

The Pilgrim Fathers are at rest ; 

When summer is throned on high. 
And the world's warm breast is in verdure dressed, 

Go, stand on the hill where they lie : 
The earliest ray of the golden day 

On the hallowed spot is cast ; 
And the evening sun, as he leaves the world, 

Looks kindly on that spot last. 



The pilgrim spirit has not fled : 

It walks in noon's broad light; 
And it watches the bed of the glorious dead. 

With the holy stars by night : 
It watches the bed of the brave who have bled. 

And shall guard this ice-bound shore. 
Till the waves of the bay where the Mayflower lay 

Shall foam and freeze no more, 

John Pierpont. 

THE CRAZED MAIDEN. 

LET me not have this gloomy view 
About my room, about my bed ; 
But morning roses, wet with dew. 
To cool my burning brow instead; 
As flowers that once in Eden grew, 

Let them their fragrant spirits shed, 
And every day their sweets renew, 
Till I, a fading flower, am dead. 

let the herbs I loved to rear 

Give to my sense their perfumed breath! 
Let them be placed about my bier, 

And grace the gloomy house of death. 
I'll have my grave beneath a hill, 

Where only Lucy's self shall know, 
Where runs the pure pellucid rill 

Upon its gravelly bed below : 
There violets on the borders blow. 

And insects their soft light display. 
Till, as the morning sumbeams glow, 

The cold phosphoric fires decay. 

That is the grave to Lucy shown ; 

The soil a pure and silver sand ; 
The green cold moss above it grown, 

Unplucked of all but maiden hand. 
In virgin earth, till then unturned, 

There let my maiden form be laid ; 
Nor let my mouldering clay be spurned. 

Nor for new guest that bed be made. 

There will the lark, the lamb, in sport. 
In air, on earth, securely play: 

And Lucy to my grave resort, 
As innocent, but not so gay. 

1 will not have the churchyard ground 

With bones all black and ugly grown. 
To press my shivering body round. 
Or on my wasted limbs be thrown. 

With ribs and skulls I will not sleep, 

In clammy beds of cold blue clay. 
Through which the clammy earth-worms creep, 

And on the shrouded bosom prey. 
I will not have the bell proclaim 

When those sad marriage rites begin. 
And boys, without regard or shame. 

Press the vile mouldering masses in. 

George Crabbe. 



228 



FAMOUS BALLADS AND NATIONAL AIRS. 



THE MURDERED TRAVELER. 

Some years since, in the month of May, the remains of a 
human body, partly devoured by wild animals, were found in 
a woody raviue, near a solitary road passing between the 
mountains west of the village of Stockbridge, Mass. It was 
supposed that the person came 
to his death by violence, but 
no traces could be discovered 
of his murderers. It was only 
recollected that one evening, 
in the course of the previous 
winter, a traveler had stopped 






And many a vernal blossom sprang, 
And nodded careless by. 

The red-bird warbled, as he wrought 
His hanging nest o'erhead. 

And fearless, near the fatal spot, 
Her young the partridge led. 

But there was weeping far away, 
And gentle eyes, for him, 

With watching many an anxious day, 
Were sorrowful and dim. 




at an inn in the village ol West 
Stockbridge ; that he had inquired 
the way to Stockbridge : and that, in 
paying the innkeeper for something 
he had ordered, it appeared that he 
had a considerable sum of money in 
his possession. Two ill-looking men 
were present, and went out about the 
same time that the traveler proceeded 
on his journey. During the winter, 
also, two men of shabby appearance, but plen- 
tifully supplied with money, had Ungered for 
awhile about the village of Stockbridge. 
Several years afterward, a criminal, about to 
be executed for a capital offence in Canada, confessed that he 
had been concerned in murdering a traveler in Stockbridge 
for the sake of his money. Nothing was ever discovered 
respecting the name or residence of the person murdered. 



w 



HEN spring, to woods and wastes around. 

Brought bloom and joy again. 
The murdered traveler's bones were found, 
Far down a narrow glen. 

The fragrant birch, above him, hung 
Her tassels in the sky ; 



They little knew, who loved him so. 

The fearful death he met. 
When shouting o'er the desert snow. 

Unarmed, and hard beset ; — 

Nor how, when round the frosty pole 
The northern dawn was red, 

The mountain wolf and wild-cat stole 
To banquet on the dead. 



FAMOUS BALLADS AND NATIONAL AIRS. 



229 



Nor how, when strangers found his bones, 

They dressed the hasty bier, 
And marked his grave with nameless stones, 

Unmoistened by a tear. 

But long they looked, and feared, and wept. 

Within liis distant home ; 
And dreamed, and started as they slept. 

For joy that he was come. 

Long, long they looked — but never spied 

His welcome step again, 
Nor knew the fearlul death he died 
Far down that narrow glen. 

W. C. Bryant. 
LEON I DAS. 

SHOUT for the mighty men 
Who died along this shore. 
Who died within the mountain's glen ! 
For never nobler chieftain's head 
Was laid on valor's crimson bed. 

Nor ever prouder gore 
Sprang forth, than theirs who won the day 
Upon thy strand, Thermopyte ! 

Shout for the mighty men 

Who on the Persian tents. 
Like lions from their midnight den 
Bounding on the slumbering deer. 
Rushed — a storm of sword and spear ; 

Like the roused elements, 
Let loose from an immortal hand 
To chasten or to crush a land ! 

But there are none to hear — 

Greece is a hopeless slave. 
Leonidas ! no hand is near 
To lift thy fiery falchion now ; 
No warrior makes the warrior's vow 

Upon thy sea-washed grave. 
The voice that should be raised by men 
Must now be given by wave and glen. 

And it is given ! The surge. 

The tree, the rock, the sand 
On freedom's kneeling spirit urge, 
In sounds that speak but to the free, 
The memory of thine and thee ! 

The vision of thy band 
Still gleams within the glorious dell 
Where their gore hallowed as it fell ! 

And is thy grandeur done ? 

Mother of men like these ! 
Has not thy outcry gone 
Where justice has an ear to hear? 
Be holy 1 God shall guide thy spear, 

Till in thy crimsoned seas 
Are plunged the chain and scimitar. 
Greece shall be a new-born star ! 

George Croly. 



THE WAY OF WOOING. 

A MAIDEN sat at her window wide. 
Pretty enough for a Prince's bride, 
Yet nobody came to claim her. 
She sat like a beautiful picture there, 
With pretty bluebells and rosts tair. 

And jasmine-leaves to frame her. 
And why she sat there nobody knows ; 
But this she sang as she plucked a rose. 

The leaves around her strewmg : 
" I've time to lose and power to choose; 
'Tis not so much the gallant who woos, 
But the gallant's way of wooing !" 

A lover came riding by awhile, 

A wealthy lover was he, whose smile 

Some maids would value greatly — 
A formal lo\er, who bowed and bent. 
With many a high-flown compliment. 

And cold demeanor stately. 
"You've still," said she to her suitor stern, 
"The 'prentice-work of your craft to learn, 

If thus you come a-cooing. 
I've time to lose and power to choose ; 
'Tis not so much the gallant who woos. 

As the gallant's way of wooing!" 

A second lover came ambling by — 
A timid lad with a frightened eye 

And a color mantling highly, 
He muttered the errand on which he'd come, 
Then only chuckled and bit his tongue, 

And simpered, simpered shyly. 
" No," said the maiden, " go your way ; 
You dare but think what a man would say. 

Yet dare to come a-suing ! 
I've time to lose and power to choose ; 
'Tis not so much the gallant who woos. 

As the gallant's ivay of wooing! " 

A third rode up at a startling pace — 
A suitor poor, with a homely face — 

No doubts appeared to bind him. 
He kissed her lips and he pressed her waist. 
And off he rode with the maiden placed 

On a pillion safe behind him. 
And she heard the suitor bold confide 
This golden hint to the priest who tied 

The knot there's no undoing ; 
" With pretty young maidens who can choose, 
'Tis not so much the gallant who woos. 

As the gallant's way of wooing !" 

AN INDIAN STORY. 

i i T KNOW where the timid fawn abides 
I In the depths of the shady dell, 
-^ Where the leaves are broad and the thicket 
hides, 
With its many stems and its tangled sides. 
From the eye of the hunter well. 



230 



FAMOUS BALLADS AND NATIONAL AIRS. 



" I know where the young May violet grows, 

In its lone and lowly nook, 
On the mossy bank, where the larch-tree throws 
Its broad dark boughs, in solemn repose, 

Far over the silent brook. 

"And that timid fawn starts not with fear 

When I steal to her secret bower ; 
And tliat young May violet to me is dear, 
And I visit the silent streamlet near, 

To look on the lovely flower." 

Thus Maquon sings as he lightly walks 
To the hunting-ground on the hills; 
'Tis a song of his maid of the woods and rocks. 
With her bright black eyes and long black locks, 
And voice like the music of rills. 

He goes to the chase — but evil eyes 

Are at watch iti the thicker shades ; 
For she was lovely that smiled on his sighs, 
And he bore, from a hundred lovers, his prize. 

The flower of the forest maids. 

The boughs in the morning wind are stirred. 

And the woods their song renew. 
With the early carol of many a bird, 
And the quickened tune of the streamlet heard 

Where the hazels trickle with dew ; 

And Maquon has promised his dark-haired maid. 

Ere eve shall redden the sky, 
A good red deer from the forest shade. 
That l>ounds with the herd through grove and glade, 

At lier cabin-door shall lie. 

The huUow woods, in the setting sun. 

Ring shrill with the fire-bird's lay; 
And Maquon's sylvan labors are done, 
And his shafts are spent, but the spoil they won 

He bears on his homeward way. 

He stops near his bower — his eye perceives 

Strange traces along the ground — 
At once to the earth his burden he heaves, 
He breaks through the veil of boughs and leaves, 

And gains its door with a bound. 

But the vines are torn on its walls that leant, 

And all from the young shrubs there 
By struggling hands have the leaves been rent, 
And there hangs on the sassafras, broken and bent, 
One tress of the well-known hair. 

But where is she who, at this calm hour, 

Ever watched his coming to see ? 
She is not at the door, nor yet in the bower ; 
He calls — but he only hears on the flower 

The hum of the laden bee. 

It is not a time for idle grief, 

Nor a time for tears to flow ; 
The horror that freezes his limbs is brief — 
He grasps his war-axe and bow, and a sheaf 

Of darts made sharp for the foe. 



And he looks for the print of the ruffian's feet, 

Where he bore the maiden away ; 
And he darts on the fatal path more fleet 
Than the blast that hurries the vapor and sleet 

O'er the wild November day. 

'Twas early summer when Maquon's bride 

Was stolen away from his door; 
But at length the maples in crimson are dyed, 
And the grape is black on the cabin side, — 

And she smiles at his hearth once more. 

But far in the pine-grove, dark and cold. 

Where the yellow leaf falls not. 
Nor the autumn shines in scarlet and gold, 
There lies a hillock of fresh dark mould, 

In the deepest gloom of the spot. 

And the Indian girls, that pass that way, 

Point out the ravisher's grave ; 
" And how soon to the bower she loved, ' ' they say, 
' ' Returned the maid that was borne away 

From Maquon, the fond and the brave." 

W. C. Bryant. 

MONTEREY. 

WE were not many, we who stood 
Before the iron sleet that day; 
Yet many a gallant spirit would 
Give half his years if but he could 
Have with us been at Monterey. 

Now here, now there, the shot it hailed 
In deadly drifts of fiery spray. 

Yet not a single soldier quailed 

When wounded comrades round him wailed 
Their dying shout at Monterey. 

And on, still on, our column kept 

Through walls of flame its withering way; 
Where fell the dead, the living stept. 
Still charging on the guns which swept 
The slippery streets of Monterey. 

The foe himself recoiled aghast, 

When, striking where he strongest lay. 
We swooped his flanking batteries past. 
And braving full their murderous blast. 
Stormed home the towers of Monterey. 

Our banners on those turrets wave, 

And there our evening bugles play ; 
Where orange-boughs above their grave. 
Keep green the memory of the brave 
Who fought and fell at Monterey. 

We are not many, we who i^ressed 

Beside the brave who fell that day ; 
But who of us has not confessed 
He'd rather share their warrior rest 
Than not have been at Monterey ? 

Charles Fenno Hoffman. 



FAMOUS BALLADS AXD NATIONAL AIRS. 



•2.2,1 




'Tuas an image of the Virgin 

Tiiat had tasked his utmost skill ; 

But alas ! his fair ideal 

Vanished and escaped him s:ill. 

From a distant Eastern islant! 

Had the precious wood been brought : 
Day and night the anxious master 

At his toil untiring wrought ; 

Till, discouraged and desponding, 
Sat lie now in shadows deep, 

And the day's humiliation 
Found oblivion in sleej . 



232 



FAMOUS BALLADS AND NATLONAL AIRS. 



Then a voice cried, "Rise, O master! 

From the burning brand of oak 
Shape the thought that stirs within thee !" 

And the startled artist woke — 

Woke, and from the smoking embers 
Seized and quenched the glowing wood; 

And therefrom he carved an image, 
And he saw that it was good. 

O thou sculptor, painter, poet ! 

Take this lesson to thy heart : 
That is best which lieth nearest ; 

Shape from that thy work of art. 

H. W. Longfellow. 



w 



BOADICEA. 

HEN the British warrior queen. 
Bleeding from the Roman rods, 

Sought, with an indignant mien, 
Counsel of her country's gods, 

Sage beneath the spreading oak 
Sat the Druid, hoary chief; 

Every burning word he spoke 
Full of rage and full of grief : 

Princess ! if our aged eyes 

Weep upon tliy matchless wrongs, 
'Tis because resentment ties 

All the terrors of our tongues. 

Rome shall perish — write that word 
In the blood that she has spilt ; 

Perish, hopeless and abhorred. 
Deep in ruin as in guilt. 

Rome, for empire far renowned. 
Tramples on a thousand states; 

Soon her pride shall kiss the ground — 
Hark ! the Gaul is at her gates ! 

Other Romans shall arise. 
Heedless of a soldier's name ; 

Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize. 
Harmony the path to fame. 

Then the progeny that springs 
From the forests of our land. 

Armed with thunder, clad with wings, 
Shall a wider world command. 

Regions Caesar never knew 

Thy posterity shall sway ; 
Where his eagles never flew. 

None invincible as they. 

Such the bard's prophetic words. 
Pregnant with celestial fire. 

Bending as he swept the chords 
Of his sweet but awful lyre. 

She, with all a monarch's pride. 
Felt them in her bosom glow, 



T 



Rushed to battle, fought, and died ; 
Dying, hurled them at the foe. 

Ruffians, pitiless as proud, 

Heaven awards the vengeance due; 

Empire is on us bestowed. 
Shame and ruin wait for you. 

William Cowper. 

PERICLES AND ASPASIA. 

HIS was the ruler of the land 

When Athens was the land of fame; 
This was the light that led the band 
When each was like a living flame ; 
The centre of earth's noblest ring, 
Of more than men the more than king. 

Yet not by fetter, nor by spear. 
His sovereignty was held or won : 

Feared — but alone as freemen fear. 
Loved — but as freemen love alone. 

He waived the sceptre o'er his kind 

By nature's first great title, mind ! 

Resistless words were on his tongue ; 

Then eloquence first flashed below. 
Full armed to life the portent sprung, 

Minerva from the thunderer's brow ! 
And his the sole, the sacred hand 
That shook her segis o'er the land. 

And throned immortal by his side, 
A woman sits with eye sublime, 

Aspasia, all his spirit's bride ; 

But, if their solemn love were crime. 

Pity the beauty and the sage — 

Their crime was in their darkened age. 

He perished, but his wreath was won — 
He perisiied in his height of fame ; 

Then sunk the cloud on Athens' sun, 
Yet still she conquered in his name. 

Filled with his soul, she could not die; 

Her conquest was posterity ! 

George Croly. 

YARN OF THE "NANCY BELL." 

1 ' I ^WAS on the shores that round the coast 
I From Deal to Ramsgate span, 
■*■ That I found alone on a piece of stone. 
An elderly naval man. 

His hair was weedy, his beard was long. 

And weedy and long was he, 
And I heard this wight on the shore recite 

In a singular minor key : 

Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold, 

And a mate of the Nancy brig. 
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite. 

And the crew of the captain's gig." 



FAMOUS BALLADS AND NATIONAL AIRS. 



233 



And he shook his fists and he tore his hair, 

Till 1 really felt afraid, 
For I couldn't help thinking the man had been 
drinking 

And so I simply said : 

" Oh, elderly man, it's little I know 
Of the duties of men of the sea, 
And I'll eat my hand if I understand 
How you can possibly be 

" At once a cook and a captain bold 
And the mate of the Nancy brig, 
And a bo'sun tight and a midshipmite. 
And the crew of the captain's gig." 



" The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate. 
And a delicate dish he made ; 
Then our appetite with the midshipmite 
We seveil survivors stayed. 

"And then we murdered the bo'sun tight. 
And he much resembled pig ; 
Then we wittled free, did the cook and me, 
On the crew of the captain's gig. 

" Then only the cook and me was left, 
And the delicate question ' Which 
Of us two goes to the kettle?' arose. 
And we argued it out as sich. 




Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which 

Is a trick all seamen larn. 
And having got rid of a thumping quid, 

He spun this painful yarn : 

" 'Twas on the good ship ' Nancy Bell,' 
That we sailed to the Indian sea, 
And there on a reef we came to grief. 
Which has often occurred to me. 

" And pretty nigh all of the crew was drowned, 
(There was seventy-seven o' soul), 
And only ten of the Nancy's men 
Said ' Here!' to the muster roll. 

" There was me and the cook and the captain bold, 
And the mate of the Nancy brig. 
And the bo'sun tight, and the midshipmite. 
And the crew of the captain's gig. 

" For a month we'd neither wittles nor drink. 
Till a hungry we did feel, 
So we drawed a lot, and accordin' shot 
The captain for our meal. 



' For I loved that cook as a brother, I did. 
And the cook he worshiped me ; 
But we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowed 
In the other chap's hold, you see. 

' ' 111 be eat if you dine's off me,' says Tom ; 

' Yes, that,' says 1, ' you'll be — 
' I'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I, 
And 'Exactly so,' quoth he. 

' Says he, ' Dear James, to murder me 
Were a foolish thing to do. 
For don't you see that you can't cook me 
While I can — and will — cook you ! 

' So he boils the water, and takes the salt 
And the pepper in portions true 
(Which he ne'er forgot), and some chopped 

chalot. 
And some sage and parsley too. 

' ' Come here,' says he, with a proper pride, 
Which his smiling features tell, 
'Twill soothing be if I let you see 
How extremely nice you'll smell.' 



234 



FAMOUS BALLADS AND NATIONAL AIRS. 



" And he stirred it round and round and round, 
And he sniffed at the foaming froth ; 
When I ups with his heels, and smothers his 
squeals 
In the scum of the boiling broth. 

" And I eat that cook in a week or less, 
And — as I eating be 
The last of his chops, why I almost drops, 
For a wessel in sight I see. 

" And I never larf, and I never smile, 
And I never lark nor play. 
But I sit and croak, and a single joke 
I have, which is to say, 

" Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold, 
And the mate of the Nancy brig, 
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, 
And the crew of the captain's gig !" 

W. S. Gilbert. 

THE INDIAN GIRL'S LAMENT. 

AN Indian girl was sitting where 
Her lover, slain in battle, slept; 
Her maiden veil, her own black hair, 
Came down o'er eyes that wept; 
And wildly, in her woodland tongue, 
This sad and simple lay she sung : 

" I've pulled away the shrubs that grew 
Too close above thy sleeping head. 
And broke the forest boughs that threw 

Their shadows o'er thy bed. 
That, shining from the sweet southwest, 
The sunbeams might rejoice thy rest. 

" It was a weary, weary road 

That led thee to the pleasant coast. 
Where thou, in his serene abode. 

Hast met thy father's ghost ; 
Where everlasting autumn lies 

On yellow woods and sunny skies. 
" 'Twas I the broidered mocsen made, 

That shod thee for the distant land; 
'Twas I thy bow and arrows laid 

Beside thy still cold hand ; 
Thy bow in many a battle bent. 
Thy arrows never vainly sent. 

" With wampum belts I crossed thy breast, 
And wrapped thee in the bison's hide. 

And laid the food that pleased thee best, 
In plenty, by thy side. 

And decked thee bravely, as became 

A warrior of illustrious name. 

" Thou'rt happy now, for thou hast passed 
The long dark journey of the grave, 
And in the land of light, at last. 

Hast joined the good and brave; 
Amid the flushed and balmy air. 
The bravest and the loveliest there. 



" Yet, oft to thine own Indian maid 

Even there thy thoughts will earthward stray — 
To her who sits where thou wert laid. 

And weeps the hours away. 
Yet almost can her grief forget. 
To think that thou dost love her yet. 

" And thou, by one of those still lakes 

That in a shining cluster lie, 
On which the south wind scarcely breaks 

The image of the sky, 
A bower for thee and me hast made 
Beneath the many-colored shade. 

" And thou dost wait and watch to meet 
My spirit sent to join the blessed. 
And, wondering what detains my feet 

From the bright land of rest. 
Dost seem, in every sound, to hear 
The rustling of my footsteps near." 

W. C. Bryant. 

BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC. 

MINE eyes have seen the glory of the coming 
of the Lord : 
He is tramping out the vintage where the 
grapes of wrath are stored ; 
He hath loosed the fateful lightnings of his terri- 
ble, swift sword : 
His truth is marching on. 

I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred 

circling camps ; 
They have builded him an altar in the evening 

dews and damps ; 
I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and 

flaring lamps : 
His day is marching on. 

I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows 

of steel : 
"As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my 

grace shall deal ; 
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent 

with his heel. 
Since God is marching on." 

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never 
call retreat ; 

He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judg- 
ment-seat ; 

O, be swift, my soul, to answer him ! be jubilant, 
iny feet ! 
Our God is marching on. 

In the beauty of the lillies Christ was born across 

the sea. 
With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you 

and me ; 
As he died to make men holy, let us die to make 
men free, 
While God is marching on. 

Julia \Vard Howe. 



FAMOUS BALLADS AND NATIONAL AIRS. 



235 



THE WHITE'FOOTED DEER. 

During the expedidon of Colonel Long, who had charge 
of the explorations between the Mississippi river and the 
Rocky Mountains, three specimens of a variety of the com- 
mon deer were brought in, having all the feet white near 
the hoofs, and extending to those on the hind feet from a 
little above the spurious hoofs. This white extremity was 



She only came when on the cliffs 

The evening moonlight lay, 
And no man knew the secret haunts 

In which she walked by day. 

White were her feet, her forehead showed 
A spot of silvery white. 




divided, ujion the sides of the foot, by the general color of 
the leg, which extends down near to the hoofs, leaving a 
white trianile in froi t, of which the point was elevated 
rather higher than the spurious hoofs. 

IT was a hundred years ago. 
When, by the woodland ways, 
The traveller saw the wild deer drink, 
Or crop the birchen sprays. 

Beneath a hill, whose rocky side 

O'erhrowed a brassy mead. 
And fenced a cottage from the wind, 

A deer was wont to feed. 



That seemed to glimmer like a star 
In autumn's hazy night. 

And here, when sang the whippoorwill, 
She cropped the sprouting leaves. 

And here her rustling steps were heard 
On still October eves. 

But when the broad midsummer moon 

Rose o'er that grassy lawn. 
Beside the silver-footed deer 

There gazed a spotted fawn. 

The cottage dame forbade her son 
To aim the rifle here ; 



236 



FAMOUS BALLADS AND NATIONAL AIRS. 



"It was a sin," she said, " to harm 
Or fright that friendly deer. 

"This spot has been my pleasant home 
Ten peaceful years and more ; 

And ever, when the moonlight shines, 
She feeds before our door. 

" The red men say that here she walked 

A thousand moons ago ; 
They never raise the war-whoop here. 

And never twang the bow. 

" I love to watch her as she feeds, 

And think that all is well 
While such a gentle creature haunts 

The place in which we dwell." 

The youth obeyed, and sought for game 

In forests far away, 
Where, deep in silence and in moss, 

The ancient woodland lay. 

But once, in autumn's golden time. 

He ranged the wild in vain. 
Nor roused the pheasant nor the deer, 

And wandered home again. 

The crescent moon and crimson eve 

Shone with a mingling light ; 
The deer, upon the grassy mead, 

Was feeding full in sight. 

He raised the rifle to his eye. 

And from the cliffs around 
A sudden echo, shrill and sharp, 

Gave back its deadly sound. 

Away into the neighboring wood 

The startled creature flew. 
And crimson drops at morning lay 

Amid the glimmering dew. 

Next evening shone the waxing moon 

As sweetly as before ; 
The deer upon the grassy mead 

Was seen again no more. 

But ere the crescent moon was old. 

By night the red men came. 
And burnt the cottage to the ground. 

And slew the youth and dame. 

Now woods have overgrown the mead. 
And hid the cliffs from sight ; 

There shrieks the hovering hawk at noon. 
And prowls the fox at night. 

W. C. Bryant. 

O MOTHER OF A MIGHTY RACE. 

O MOTHER of a mighty race. 
Yet lovely in thy youthful grace ! 
The elder dames, thy haughty peers. 
Admire and hate thy blooming years ; 

With words of shame 
And taunts of scorn they join thy name. 



For on thy cheeks the glow is spread 
That tints thy morning hills with red; 
Thy step — the wild deer's rustling feet 
Within thy woods are not more fleet ; 

Thy hopeful eye 
Is bright as thine own sunny sky. 

Ay, let them rail — those haughty ones, 
While safe thou dwellest with thy sons ! 
They do not know how loved thou art. 
How many a fond and fearless heart 

Would rise to throw 
Its life between thee and the foe. 

They know not, in their hate and pride, 
What virtues with thy children bide — 
How true, how good, thy graceful maids 
Make bright, like flowers, the valley shades j 

What generous men 
Spring, like thine oaks, by hill and glen ; 

What cordial welcomes greet the guest 
By thy lone rivers of the west ; 
How faith is kept, and truth revered, 
And man is loved, and God is feared. 

In woodland homes. 
And where the ocean border foams. 

There's freedom at thy gates, and rest 
For earth's downtrodden and opprest, 
A shelter for the hunted head. 
For the starved laborer toil and bread. 

Power, at thy bounds, 
Stops, and calls back his baffled hounds. 

O fair young mother ! on thy brow 
Shall sit a nobler grace than now. 
Deep in the brightness of thy skies 
The thronging years in glory rise. 

And, as they fleet, 
Drop strength and riches at thy feet. 

Thine eye, with every coming hour. 

Shall brighten, and thy form shall tower; 

And when thy sisters, elder born, 

Would brand thy name with words of scorn. 

Before thine eye 
Upon their lips the taunt shall die. 

W. C. Bryant. 

"ONCE ON A TIME." 

A FAIRY woke one winter night 
And looked about with glances bright. 
" I think I will arise," she said, 
" And leave my comrades in their bed. 
And I will go abroad and see 
How mortals fare." So, full of glee 
At such wild daring, forth she went, 
On bold investigation bent. 

The air was chill, the moon shone bright 
As ever on a summer night ; 
The ground was covered deep with snow. 
And trees stood leafless, row on row. 



FAMOUS BALLADS AND NATIONAL AIRS. 



237 



The fairy shivered in the wind 
And said, " I'he friends I left behind 
In thfir deep slumber happier are 
Than I wlio rashly roam so far." 

Yet on she went and sought the town, 
And in amaze went up and down. 
Such liglits, such music and good cheer, 
As grace no other time of year, 
Such liappy faces everywhere, 
Such glad release from fret and care, 
And homes so garlanded with green. 
As ne'er before the elf had seen ! 




" I thought the world was dull and drear 
In winter-time," said she. " Oh, dear ! 
I wish my comrades only knew 
How bright it is, how fresh and new, 
In its white dress ; how every street 
Is all alive with bounding feet ; 
How people laugh and sing and play — 
It surely is some festal day!" 

Tlirough street and house and church and store 

She flitted, wondering more and more 

At all she saw and all she heard, 

Hoping for some enlightening word, 

When on a banner carried by 

She saw these words uplifted high — 

"Rejoice, O, Earth ! be glad and gay ; 

It is the blessed Christmas Day !" 

Away she sped o'er town and hill 
And field and wood and frozen rill. 



Unto a cavern warm and deep. 
And woke her comrades from their sleep — 
" Arise !" she cried ; " Oh, come away ! 
The world is keeping Christmas Day !" 
And, ever since, when birth-bells chime, 
The fairies help keep Christmas time. 

Lillian Grey. 

THE PHANTOM CITY. 

It was somewhere on the banks of the romantic and pic- 
turesque Penobscot, probably at the Indian village where 
Bangor now stands, that the fabulous city " IS'orembega " 
was located by the early French fishermen and explorers of 
Cape Breton, who told big stories of its wealth and magnifi- 
cence. The winding stream bore many an adventurer in 
search of this Northern Eldorado; and in 1604 Champlain, 
the French voyager, sailed up the river on the same errand. 
But he found no evidence of civilization save a cross, very 
old and mossy, that marked the burial-place of a nameless 
traveler, and he wisely concluded that tliose who toM of the 
city had never seen it — -that it was but a shadow and a 
dream. 

MIDSUMMER'S crimson tnoon. 
Above the hills like some night-opening 
rose 
Uplifted, pours its beauty down the vale 
Where broad Penobscot flows. 

And I remember now 

That this is haunted ground. In ages past 
Here stood the storied Norembega's walls. 
Magnificent and vast. 

The streets were ivory paved. 
The stately walls were built of golden ore, 
Its domes outshone the sunset, and full boughs 
Hesperian fruitage bore. 

And up this winding flood 
Has wandered many a sea-tossed daring bark, 
While eager eyes have scanned the rugged shore. 
Or pierced the wildwood dark, 

But watched in vain ; afar 
They saw the spires gleam golden on the sky. 
The distant drum-beat heard, or bugle-note 
Wound wildly, fitfully. 

Banners of strange device 

Beckoned from distant heiglits ; yet as the stream 

Narrowed among the hills, the city fled — 

A mystery — or a dream. 

Frances P. Mace. 

HER LAST MOMENT. 

HANGS the picture, bold and striking. 
On the Academic wall, 
Claiming notice, if not liking. 
With a strong, resistless call. 
Some approve, while some denounce it, 

But the praise outweighs by far, 
And the critics all pronounce it 
Greatest work of Alan Barr. 



238 



FAMOUS BALLADS AND NATIONAL AIRS. 



Pictured on a summer morning, 

There you see the Falls of Lynn, 
Almost hear the sound of warning 

In the foaming torrent's din, 
As you note the ground is crumbling 

'Neath the footstep of the girl, 
Gazing down into the tumbling 

Waters in their eddying whirl. 

Of no dangers apprehensive, 

Poising there in lightsome grace. 
Radiant happiness, though pensive, 

Shines from out that happy face. 
" Her last Moment," such the title 

Of that vivid artist-dream. 
Telling in a curt recital, 

Of a tragedy supreme. 

" Hush ! a truce to praise or stricture." 

" See ! the artist and his wife !" 
" Is the lady in the picture, 

Then, her portrait, drawn from life ?" 
"Nay ! less lovely," is the murmur. 

As, beside his stately bride, 
And with lips compressed the firmer, 

Alan breasts the human tide. 

At the throng the lady glances. 

To her husband saying loud — 
" Strange this oddest of your fancies 

Has such power to charm the crowd ! 
Yet I hardly deem it equal 

In true feeling to your last " 

Alan Barr heard not the sequel. 

For his thoughts were in the past. 

Oh ! the glory of that summer 

Only poet's tongue could tell ! 
And the city-bred new-comer 

Yielded to its magic spell. 
Busy nature's marvels daily 

Ceaseless wonder wrought in her, 
While her artist kinsman gaily 

Acted as interpreter. 

So began the old, old story. 

As through shady lanes they strolled 
Or drank in the sunset glory. 

Hues of blue, and rose, and gold. 
" It was but his bounden duty ; 

Courtesy to his mother's guest," 
Alan argued, when her beauty 

Caused a thrill within his breast. 

Childlike beauty, childlike sweetness. 

Marked the face of Rose Adair, 
Yet in full and rich completeness. 

Woman's soul was pictured there. 
Quick responsive to each feeling. 

Sharing nature's varying mood, 
Frank, transparent, yet revealing 

Depths not straightway understood. 



So, within the careless present, 

Alan revelled, wilful-blind. 
Diving, as a pastime pleasant. 

For the treasures of her mind. 
Rose, meanwhile, in him but seeing 

Noble nature, good and wise ; 
Talented and kingly being, 

Loomed the painter in her eyes. 

Yet, when jest with earnest blending, 

Alan scoffed at higher tliemes. 
Saying ; " What more blest than spending, 

Golden days in golden dreams?" 
Flamed her eyes in steel-blue splendor. 

Though she colored 'neath his gaze. 
" Nay," she said in accents tender, 

"Golden deeds make golden days ! 

" Life means not a mere existence 

Passed in ease and dreamy sloth." 
Urging still with soft persistence, 

Tasks upon the idler, loth 
To resign his much-loved leisure. 

Yet he roused at her behest, 
Seeking so to give her pleasure, 

Sketched the spot she loved the best. 

Conscience-pangs thus idly stifling, 

Acting an unworthy part, 
Pledged unto another, trifling 

With a pure and trusting heart. 
With a wordless wooing winning 

Love he was not free to claim, 
'Gainst all truth and honor sinning, 

Sin the world is slow to blame. 

Rose, half thoughtful, happy wholly, 

Gazed into the Falls of Lynn, 
As he sat and painted slowly, 

While the conflict raged within ; 
Conscience proved at length the stronger— 

' ' Yes, to-morrow we must part ; 
She shall be deceived no longer, 

Oh ! but it will break her heart !" 

Then, with softened glance and tender. 

Turned he to sweet Rose Adair, 
Just to see the figure slender 

Flutter from his sight — oh, where? 
Far below, the swirling water 

Seizing on its dainty prey. 
Tossed and buffeted and caught her. 

In a fierce tumultuous play. 

Though so cruelly is battered 

Life from out that shapely form. 
Yet the gentle heart, unshattered, 

Havened is from earthly storm. 
Now no polished phrases cruel 

Tell her of a hopeless loss, 
Tell her she has changed her jewel 

For a thing of worthless dross. 



FAMOUS BALLADS AND NATIONAL AIRS. 



239 



Not for her to pine and languish 

Till long years the pain might lull; 
Even spared the parting anguish — 

Oh ! but God was merciful ! 
Almost reeled the painter's reason, 

'Neath the sudden blow, whose force 
Ended that idyllic season 

With a weight of dull remorse. 

Yet with manhood's strength reviving 

Her last counsel he obeys, 
Solace seeks in fruitful striving : 

" Golden deeds make golden days." 
Still his troth-plight is unbroken, 

And he weds where faith is due — 
Henceforth (though to woman spoken !) 

Alan's every word is trite. 

Always with him, fading never, 

Is the haunting fate of Rose, 
Till the scene, with slight endeavor. 

Vivid on the canvas grows. 
Now, in beauty and completeness. 

Hangs the graceful picture there, 
Alan owns, with bitter sweetness. 

Fame — the gift of Rose Adair. 

Margaret Craven. 

EDWARD GRAY. 

SWEET Emma Moreland of yonder town 
Met we walking on yonder way, 
•' And have you lost your heart ?" she said : 
" And are you married yet, Edward Gray ?" 

Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me : 
Bitterly weeping I turned away : 
" Sweet Emma Moreland, love no more 
Can touch the heart of Edward Gray. 

" Ellen Adair she loved me well. 

Against her father's and mother's will : 
To-day I sat for an hour and wept, 
By Ellen's grave, on the windy hill. 

" Shy she was, and I thought her cold ; 

Thought her proud, and fled over the sea; 
Filled I was with folly and spite. 

When Ellen Adair was dying for me. 

" Cruel, cruel the words I said ! 

Cruelly came they back to-day : 
' You're too slight and fickle,' I said, 
' To trouble the heart of Edward Gray.' 

" There I put my face in the grass — 
Whispered, ' Listen to my despair: 
I repent me of all I did : 
Speak a little, Ellen Adair !' 

" Then I took a pencil, and wrote 
On the mossy stone, as I lay, 
' Here lies the body of Ellen Adair; 

And here the heart of Edward Gray !' 



" Love may come, and love may go. 

And fly, like a bird, from tree to tree : 
But I will love no more, no more. 
Till Ellen Adair comes back to me. 

" Bitterly wept I over the stone : 
Bitterly weeping I turned away : 
There lies the body of Ellen Adair ! 
And there the heart of Edward Gray ! " 
Alfred Tennyson. 

MY MARYLAND. 

THE despot's heel is on thy shore, 
Maryland ! 
His torch is at thy temple door, 
Maryland ! 
Avenge the patriotic gore 
That flecked the streets of Baltimore, 
And be the battle queen of yore, 
Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Hark to an exiled son's appeal, 

Maryland 1 
My Mother State, to thee I kneel, 

Maryland ! 
For life or death, for woe or weal, 
Thy peerless chivalry reveal. 
And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Thou wilt not cower in the dust, 

Maryland ! 
Thy beaming sword shall never rust, 

Maryland ! 
Remember Carroll's sacred trust. 
Remember Howard's warlike thrust. 
And all thy slumberers with the just, 

NLaryland, my Maryland ! 

Come ! 'tis the red dawn of the day, 

IMaryland ! 
Come with thy panoplied array, 

Maryland ! 
With Ringgold's spirit tor the fray. 
With Watson's blood at Monterey, 
With fearless Lowe and dashing May, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Dear Mother burst the tyrant's chain, 

Maryland ! 
Virginia should not call in vain, 

Maryland ! 
She meets her sisters on the plain, 
" Sic semper ! " 'tis the proud refrain 
That baffles minions back amain, 

Maryland ! 
Arise in majesty again, 

Maryland, my Mar3-land ! 

Come ! for thy shield is bright and strong, 

Maryland ! 
Come ! for thy dalliance does thee wrong, 

Marvland I 



240 



FAMOUS BALLADS AND NATIONAL AIRS. 



Come to thine own heroic throng 
Stalking with liberty along, 
And chant thy dauntless slogan-song, 
Maryland, my Maryland ! 

I see the blush upon thy cheek, 

Maryland ! 
But thou wast ever bravely meek, 

Maryland ! 
But lo ! there surges forth a shriek. 
From hill to hill, from creek to creek, 
Potomac calls to Chesapeake, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, 

Maryland ! 
Thou wilt not crook to his control, 

Maryland ! 
Better the fire upon the roll. 
Better the shot, the blade, the bowl, 
Than crucifixion of the soul, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

I hear the distant thunder-hum ! 

Maryland ! 
The " Old Line's " bugle, fife and drum, 

Maryland ! 
She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb : 
Huzza! s'.ie spurns the Northern scum — 
She breathes! She burns! She'll come! She'll 
come ! 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

James R. Randall. 

THE PLACE WHERE MAN SHOULD DIE. 

HOW little recks it where men die. 
When once the moment's past 
In which the dim and glazing eye 
Has looked on earth its last ; 
Whether beneath the sculptured urn 

Tlie coffined form shall rest, 
Or, in its nakedness, return 
Back to its mother's breast. 

Death is a common friend or foe, 

As different men may hold, 
And at its summons each must go, 

The timid and the bold ; 
But when the spirit, free and warm, 

Deserts it, as it must. 
What matter where the lifeless form 

Dissolves again to dust? 

The soldier falls 'mid corpses piled 

Upon t!ic battle-plain, 
Where reinless war-steeds gallop wild 

Above the gory slain ; 
But though his corpse be grim to see, 

Hoof-trarapled on the sod. 
What recks it when the spirit free 

Has soared aloft to God ! 



The coward's dying eye may close 

Upon his downv bed. 
And softest hands his limbs compose, 

Or garments o'er him spread ; 
But ye who shun the bloody fray 

Where fall the mangled brave. 
Go strip his coffin-lid away, 

And see him in his grave ! 

'Twere sweet indeed to close our eyes 

With those we cherish near, 
And, wafted upward by their sighs, 

Soar to some calmer sphere ; 
But whether on the scaffold high. 

Or in the battle's van, 
The fittest place where man can die 

Is where he dies for man. 

Michael J. Barry. 

THE DEATH OF ALIATAR. 



?npi 

1 T 



FROM THE SPANISH. 

'IS not with gilded sabres 

That gleam in baldricks blue. 
Nor nodding jilunies in caps of Fez, 
Of gay and gaudy hue — 
But, habited in mourning weeds, 

Come marching from afar, 
By four and four, the valiant men 

Who fought with Aliatar. 
All mournfully and slowly 

The afflicted warriors come, 
To the deep wail of the trumpet. 
And beat of muffled drum. 

The banner of the Phenix, 

The flag that loved the sky. 
That scarce the wind dared wanton with. 

It flew so proud and high — 
Njw leaves its place in battle-field, 

And sweeps the ground in grief, 
The bearer drags its glorious folds 

Behind the fallen chief. 

Brave Aliatar led forward 

A hundred Moors to go 
To where his brother held Motril 

Against the leaguering foe 
On horseback went the gallant Moor, 

That gallant band to lead ; 
And now his bier is at the gate, 

From whence he pricked his steed, 

The knights of the Grand Master 

In crowded ambush lay ; 
They rushed upon him where the reeds 

Were thick beside the way ; 
They smote the valiant Aliatar, 

They smote the warrior dead, 
And broken, but not beaten, were 

The gallant ranks he led. 




16 



241 



242 



FAMOUS BALLADS AND NATIONAL AIRS. 



Oh ! what was Zayda's sorrow, 

How passionate her cries ! 
Her lover's wounds streamed not more free 

Than that poor maiden's eyes. 
Say, Love — for didst thou see her tears? 

Oh, no ! he drew more tight 
The Winding fillet o'er his lids 

To spare his eyes the sight. 

Nor Zayda weeps him only. 
But all that dwell between 



The great Alhambra's palace walls 

And springs of Albaicin. 
The ladies weep the flower of knights. 

The brave the bravest here ; 
The people weep a champion, 

The Alcaydes a noble peer, 
While mournfully and slowly 

The afflicted warriors come. 
To the deep wail of the trumpet. 

And beat of muffled drum. 

^V. C. Bryant. 







',*^ii^ •"'•^■^^ ,;.-& 




THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP. 

WRITTEN AT NORFOLK IN VIRGINIA. 

" They tell of a young man who lost his mind upon the 
death of a girl he loved, and who, suddenly disappearing from 
his friends, was never afterwards heard of. As he had fre- 
quently said in his ravings that the girl was not dead, but 
gone to the Dismal Swamp, it is supposed he had wandered 
into that dreary wilderness, and had died of hunger, or been 
lost in some of its dreadful morasses." 

The Great Dismal Swamp is ten or twelve miles distant 
from Norfolk, and the lake in the middle of it (about seven 
miles long) is called Drummond's Pond. 

HEY made her a grave too cold and damp 

For a soul so warm and true; 
And she's gone to the lake of the Dismal 
Swamp, 
Where all night long, by a firefly lamp. 
She paddles her white canoe. 



U'T^ 



And her firefly lamp I soon shall see, 
And her paddle I soon shall hear ; 
Long and loving our life shall be. 
And I'll hide the maid in a cypress-tree. 
When the footstep of death is near !" 



Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds, — 

His path was rugged and sore, 
Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds. 
Through many a fen where the serpent feeds. 

And man never trod before ! 

And when on earth he sunk to sleep, 

If slumber his eyelids knew, 
He lay where the deadly vine doth weep 
Its venomous tear, and nightly steep 

The flesh with blistering dew ! 

And near him the she-wolf stirred the brake, 
And the copper-snake breathed in his ear, 
Till he starting cried, from his dream awake, 
O, when shall I see the dusky lake, 
And the white canoe of my dear?" 

He saw the lake, and a meteor bright 

Quick over its surface played, — 
Welcome," he said, " my dear one's light !" 
And the dim shore echoed for many a night 
The name of the death-cold maid ! 



I 



FAMOUS BALLADS AND NATIONAL AIRS. 



243 



Till he hollowed a boat of the birchen bark, 

Which carried him off from shore; 
Far he followed the meteor spark, 
The wind was high and the clouds were dark, 
And the boat returned no more. 

But oft, from the Indian hunter's camp, 

This lover and maid so true 
Are seen, at the hour of midnight damp. 
To cross the lake by a firefly lamp. 

And paddle their white canoe ! 

Thomas Moore. 

THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER. 

OSAY, can you see, by the dawn's early light, 
Wliat so proudly we hailed in the twilight's 
last gleaming ? 
Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the 
perilous fight. 
O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly 
streaming ; 
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in 

air. 
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still 

there. 
O, say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave? 

On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the 

deep. 
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence 

reposes. 
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering 

steep, 
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses? 
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first 

beam, 
In full glory reflected now shines on the stream. 
'Tis the star-spangled banner ! O, long may it 

wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ! 

And where is tliat band who so vauntingly swore 

That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion 
A home and a country should leave us no more ! 
Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' 
pollution. 
No refuge could save the hireling and slave 
From the terror of death and the gloom of the 

grave. 
.\nd the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ! 

O, thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand 
Between their loved homes and the war's deso- 
lation ; 
Blest with victory and peace, may the heaven-res- 
cued land 
Praise the power that has made and preserved us 
a nation. 



Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just, 
And this be our motto, " In God is our trust." 
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. 

Francis S Key. 



w 



THE GERMAN'S FATHERLAND. 

FROM THE GERMAN. 

HERE is the German's Fatherland ? 
Is't Prussia? Swabia? Is't the strand 
Where grows the vine, where flows the 
Rhine ? 

Is't where the gull skims Baltic's brine ? — 
No ! — yet more great and far more grand 
Must be the German's Fatherland ! 

Then say, where lies the',Gen|ian's land ? 
How call they that uncdiiquer.ed land ? 
Is't where Tyrol's green mountains rise? 
The Switzer's land I dearly prize. 
By freedom's purest breezes fanned — 
But no ! 'tis not the German's land ! 

Say then, where lies the German's land ? 
Baptize that great, that ancient land ! 
Is't Alsace ! Or Lorraine — that gem 
Wrenched from the Imperial diadem 
By wiles which princely treachery planned ? 
No ! these are not the German's land. 

Where, therefore, lies the German's land ? 
Name now at last that mighty land ! 
Where'er resounds the German's tongue — 
Where German hymns to God are sung^ 
There, gallant brother, take thy stand ! 
That is the German's Fatherland. 

That is the German's Fatherland. 

Great God ! Look down and bless that land ! 

And give her noble children souls 

To cherish while e.xistence rolls. 

And love with heart, and aid with hand. 

Their Universal Fatherland. 



T 



THE HAPPIEST LAND. 

KROM THE GERMAN. 

HERE sat one day in quiet. 
By an alehouse on the Rhine, 
Four hale and hearty fellows. 
And drank the precious wine. 



The landlord's daughter filled their cups, 

Around the rustic board ; 
Then sat they all so calm and still. 

And spake not one rude word. 

But when the maid departed, 

A Swabian raised his hand. 
And cried, all hot and flushed with wine, 

" Long live the Swabian land ! 



244 



FAMOUS BALLADS AND NATIONAL AIRS. 



" The greatest kingdom upon earth 

Cannot with that compare ; 
With all the stout and hardy men 

And the nut-brown maidens there." 

" Ha ! " cried a Saxon, laughing — 

And dashed his beard with wine ; 
" I had rather live in Lapland, 

Than that Swabian land of thine ! 

•' The goodliest land on all this earth, 

It is the Saxon land ! 
There have I as many maidens 

As fingers on this hand ! " 

" Hold your tongues ! both Swabian and Saxon ! " 

A bold Bohemian cries ; 
" If there's a heaven upon this earth, 

In Bohemia it lies. 

" There the tailor blows the flute. 

And the cobbler blows the horn. 
And the miner blows the bugle. 

Over mountain gorge and bourn." 

And then the landlord's daughter 

Up to heaven raised her hand, 
And said, ye may no more contend, — 

There lies the happiest land ! ' ' 

H. W. Longfellow. 

THE FAIR HELEN. 

The legend upon which this ballad is founded is briefly 
this : Helen Irving, daughter of the Laird of Kirconnell in 
Dumfriesshire, celebrated for her beauty, was beloved by two 
gentlemen. The favored lover was Adam Fleming, of Kirk- 
patrick ; the other is supposed to have been a Bell, of Bracket 
House. The latter's suit was favored by the friends of the 
lady; consequently, the lovers were compelled to meet in 
secret, and by night in the Kirconnell churchyard, a pic- 
turesque spot almost surrounded by the river Kirtle. During 
one of these meetings the despised suitor suddenly appeared 
on tlie opposite bank of the stream and fired a carbine at his 
rival. But Helen, throwing herself before her lover, received 
the bullet intended for him, and died in his arms. Fleming 
fought the murderer and cut him to pieces. Other accounts 
slate that Fleming pursued his foe to Spain, and slew him in 
the streets of Madrid. The first part of the ballad — sus- 
pected to be modern — consists of an address to the lady, 
either by Fleming or his rival; the second part — by far the 
more beautiful — forms the lament of Fleming over Helen's 
grave. Lord Macaulay considered this the fmest ballad in 
the English language. 

Part I. 

O SWEETEST sweet, and fairest fair. 
Of birth and worth beyond compare. 
Thou art the causer of my care, 
.Since first I loved thee. 

Yet God hath given to me a mind. 
The which to thee shall prove as kind 
As any one tnat thou shalt find. 
Of high or low degree. 

1 he sh.dlowest water makes maist din, 
Tlie deadliest pool, the deepest lin ; 
The richest man least truth within, 
Though he jireferred be. 



Yet, nevertheless, I am content. 
And never a whit my love repent. 
But think the time was a'weel spent. 
Though I disdained be. 

O ! Helen sweet, and maist complete, 
My captive spirit's at thy feet ! 
Think'st thou still fit thus for to treat 
Thy captive cruelly ? 

! Helen brave ! but this I crave. 
Of thy poor slave some pity have, 
And do him save that's near his grave, 

And dies for love of thee. 

Part H. 

1 wish I were where Helen lies, 
Night and day on me she cries, 
O that I were where Helen lies. 

On fair Kirconnell Lee ! 

Curst be the heart that thought the thought. 
And curst the hand that fired the shot. 
When in my arms burd Helen dropt. 
And died to succor me ! 

think na ye my heart was sair. 

When my love dropt down and spak nae mairl 
There did swoon wi' meikle care. 
On fair Kirconnell Lee. 

As I went down the water side. 
None but my foe to be my guide, 
None but my foe to be my guide, 
On fair Kirconnell Lee ; 

1 lighted down my sword to draw, 
I hacked him in pieces sma', 

I hacked him in pieces sma'. 
For her sake that died for me. 

O Helen fair, beyond compare ! 
I'll make a garland of thy hair. 
Shall bind my heart for evermair. 
Until the day I die. 

O that I were where Helen lies ! 
Night and day on me she cries ; 
Out of my bed she bids me rise, 

Says, " Haste and come to me ! " — 

Helen fair ! O Helen chaste ! 
If I were with thee, I were blest, 
Where thou lies low, and takes thy rest. 

On fair Kirconnell Lee. 

1 wish my grave were growing green, 
A winding sheet drawn ower my een. 
And I in Helen's arms lying, 

On fair Kirconnell Lee. 

I wish I were where Helen lies ! 
Night and dav on me she cries; 
And I am weary of the skies, 
For her sake that died for me. 



HOPE AND MEMORY: 

OR 

BRIGHT GLIMPSES OF THE PAST AND FUTURE. 



A RETROSPECT. 

ES, I behold again the place, 

The seat of joy, the source of pain ; 
It brings in view the form and face 
That I must never see again. 

The night-bird's song that sweetly floats 
On this soft gloom — this balmy air, 

Brings to the mind her sweeter notes 
That I again must never hear. 



Lo ! yonder shines that windovif's light, 

My guide, my token, heretofore ; 
And now again it shines as bright, 
When those dear eyes can shine no more. 

Then hurry from this place away ! 

It gives not now the bliss it gave ; 
For death has made its charm his prey. 

And joy is buried in her grave. 




THE LONa=AQO. 

ON that deep-retiring shore 
Frequent pearls of beauty lie. 
Where the passion-waves of yore 
Fiercely beat and mounted high : 
Sorrows that are sorrows still 

Lose the bitter taste of woe ; 
Nothing's altogether ill 
In the griefs of long-ago. 

Tombs where lonely love repines. 

Ghastly tenements of tears, 
Wear the look of happy shrines 

Through the golden mist of years: 
Death, to those who trust in good. 

Vindicates his hardest blow ; 
Oh ! we would not, if we could. 

Wake the sleep of long-ago ! 

Though the doom of swift decay 

Shocks the soul where life is strong, 
Though for frailer hearts the day 

Lingers sad and overlong — 
Still the weight will find a leaven, 

Still the spoiler's hand is slow, 
While the future has its heaven. 

And the past its long-ago. 

Lord Houghton. 



o 



George Crabbe. 

MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD. 

H dear old friend ! I come this way 

Once more, once more to rest on thee, 
While generous branch and leafy spray 
A pleasant bower make for me. 



It seems as only yesterday 

That I was racing down the mead. 

With young companions blithe and gay, 
To mount thee, brave and bonny steed. 

The blackbird pipes as cheerily now. 

As gaily flaunts the butterfly, 
As when we shook the pliant bough 

By madly urging thee on high. 

But scattered is that gamesome band 
That filled with mirth the flying hours ; 

One sojourns in a distant land, 

One sleeps beneath the daisy flowers. 

And others from my ken have passed. 

But this I feel, where'er they be, 
They'll not forget while life shall last 
Our swing beneath the chestnut- tree. 

J. G. Watts. 
245 



246 



HOPE AND MEMORY. 



A 



DEPARTED JOYS. 

MONGST the thunder-splintered caves, 
On ocean's long and windy shore, 
I catch the voice of dying waves 
Below the ridges old and hoar. 



The spray descends in silver showers. 
And lovely whispers come and go. 

Like echoes from the happy hours 
I never more may hope to know ! 

The moonlight dreams upon the sail 
That drives the restless ship to sea ; 

The clouds troop past the mountain vale, 
And sink like spirits down the lee ; 

Why comes thy voice, thou lonely one. 
Along the wild harp's wailing strings? 

Have not our hours of meeting gone, 
Like fading dreams on phantom wings ? 

Are not the grasses round thy grave 
Yet springing green and fresh to view ? 

And does the gleam on ocean's wave 
Tide gladness now to me and you ? 

H. C. Kendall. 

THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 

CHILDHOOD'S loved group revisits every 
scene. 
The tangled wood-walk and the tufted 
green ! 
Indulgent memory wakes, and lo, they live ! 
Clothed with far softer hues than light can give. 
Thou first, best friend that Heaven assigns below. 
To soothe and sweeten all the cares we know ; 
Whose glad suggestions still each vain alarm, 
When nature fades and life forgets to charm ; 
Thee would the Muse invoke ! to thee belong 
The sage's precept and the poet's song. 

What softened views thy magic glass reveals, 
When o'er the landscape time's meek twilight 

steals ! 
As when in ocean sinks the orb of day. 
Long on the wave reflected lustres play ; 
Thy tempered gleams of happiness resigned. 
Glance on the darkened mirror of the mind. 

The school's lone porch, with reverend mosses gray. 
Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay. 
Mute is the bell that rang at peep of dawn. 
Quickening my truant feet across the lawn: 
Unheard the shout that rent the noontide air 
When the slow dial gave a pause to care. 
Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear. 
Some little friendship formed and cherished here ; 
And not the lightest leaf, but trembling teems 
With golden visions and romantic dreams. 

Down by yon hazel copse, at evening blazed 
The gipsy's fagot — there we stood and gazed ; 



Gazed on her sunburnt face with silent awe. 
Her tattered mantle and her hood of straw ; 
Her moving lips, her caldron brimming o'er ; 
The drowsy brood that on her back she bore. 
Imps in the barn with mousing owlets bred. 
From rifled roost at nightly revel fed ; 
Whose dark eyes flashed through locks of blackest 

shade. 
When in the breeze the distant watch-dog bayed : 
And heroes fled the sibyl's muttered call. 
Whose elfin prowess scaled the orchard wall. 
As o'er my palm the silver piece she drew. 
And traced the line of life with searching view, 
How throbbed my fluttering pulse with hopes and 

fears, 
To learn the color of my future years ! 

Ah, then, what honest triumph flushed my breast; 
This truth once known — to bless is to be blest ! 
We led the bending beggar on his way — 
Bare were his feet, his tresses silver-gray — 
Soothed the keen pangs his aged spirit felt. 
And on his tale with mute attention dwelt : 
As in his scrip we dropt our little store. 
And sighed to think that little was no more. 
He breathed his prayer, " Long may such goodness 

live!" 
'Twas all he gave — 'twas all he had to give. 

Hail, memory, hail ! in thy e.xhaustless mine 
From age to age unnumbered treasures shine ! 
Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey. 
And place and time are subject to thy sway ! 
Thy pleasures most we feel when most alone: 
The only pleasures we can call our own. 
Lighter than air, hope's summer-visions die, 
If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky ; 
If but a beam of sober reason play, 
Lo, fancy's fairy frost-work melts away ! 
But can the wiles of art, the grasp of power. 
Snatch the rich relics of a well-spent hour? 
These, when the trembling spirit wings her flight, 
Pour round her path a stream of living light ; 
And gild those pure and perfect realms of rest, 
Where virtue triumphs, and her sons are blest ! 

Samuel Rogers. 

WATCH AND WAIT. 

THE red-breast sings with a plaintive note. 
The cattle are housed in stall, my dear, 
The dead leaves float at the rim of the moat. 
Under the moss-grown wall, my dear; 
But your eyes are happy with dreams of spring. 

As you sit by the hearth to-night. 
And your opal ring, like a living thing. 
Flashes with fitful light ! 

The dainty blossoms are gone indeed 

To their home in the darkness deep, my dear, 

But the hopeful seed for the whole world's need 
Is laid in the earth to sleep, my dear ! 




DREAMING OF THE FUTURE. 



247 



248 



HOPE AND MEMORY. 



And you gaze deep, deep, in the heart of the glow, 

On the flickering, dancing flame. 
And your blushes show what your lips breathe low, 

As you whisper the one loved name. 

Though the dwindling day to the dark decline, 

And the year be fain to depart, my dear. 
Sweet visions shine like gems of the mine 

In the hush of your faithful heart, my dear ! 
Watch yet awhile, and wait — who knows 

What fate may have stored for you? 
When winter goes, and the leaves unclose, 

And beautiful dreams come true ! 

M. C. GiLLINGTON. 



Primeval hope, the Aonian muses say. 
When man and nature mourned their first decay ; 
When every form of death, and every woe. 
Shot from malignant stars to earth below; 
When murder bared his arm, and rampant war 
Yoked the red dragons of his iron car ; 
When peace and mercy, banished from the plain, 
Sprang on the viewless winds to heaven again ; 
All, all forsook the friendless, guilty mind, 
But hope, the charmer, lingered still behind. 

Thus, while Elijah's burning wheels prepare 
From Carmel's heights to sweep the fields of air. 
The prophet's mantle, ere his flight began, 
Dropt on the world — a sacred gift to man. 




THE PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

Few poems have afforded so much delight as the one from 
which these deUghtfuI hnes have been selected. The popu- 
larity it gained instantly upon its publication has not dimin- 
ished. The seventh line below has passed into a popular 
proverb. 

AT summer eve, when heaven's ethereal bow 
Spans with bright arch the glittering hills 
below. 
Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye. 
Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky? 
Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear 
More sweet than all the landscape smiling near? 
'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view. 
And robes the mountain in its azure hue. 
Thus, with delight, we linger to survey 
The promised joys of life's unmeasured way; 
Thus, from afar, each dim-discovered scene 
More pleasing seems than all the past hath been, 
And every form, that fancy can repair 
From dark oblivion, glows divinely there. 



Auspicious hope ! in thy sweet garden grow 
Wreaths for each toil, a charm for everv woe ; 
Won by their sweets, in nature's languid hour, 
The way-worn pilgrim seeks thy summer bower; 
There, as the wild bee murmurs on the wing, 
What peaceful dreams thy handmaid spirits bring ! 
What viewless forms the .-Eolian organ pla} , 
And sweep the furrowed lines of anxious thought 
away. 

Lo ! at the couch, where infant beauty s'eeps, 
Her silent watch the mournful mother keeps ; 
She, while the lovely babe unconscious lies. 
Smiles on her slumbering child with pensive eyes, 
And weaves a song of melancholy joy — 
" Sleep, image of thy father, sleep, my boy ; 
No lingering hour of sorrow shall be thine. 
No sigh that rends thy father's heart and mine; 
Bright as his manly sire the son shall be 
In form and soul ; but, ah, more blest than he ! 
Thy fame, thy worth, thy filial love at last. 



HOPE AND MEMORY. 



249 



Shall soothe his aching heart for all the past — 

With many a smile my solitude repay, 

And chase the world's ungenerous scorn away. 

Warsaw's last champion from her height sur- 
veyed, 

Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid — 

" Oh ! Heaven !" he cried, " my bleeding country 
save ! 

Is there no hand on high to shield the brave? 

Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains, 

Rise, fellow-men ! our country yet remains ! 

By that dread name, we wave the sword on high ! 

And swear for her to live ! — with her to die !" 

He said, and on the rampart heights arrayed 
His trusty warriors, few, but undismayed ; 
Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form. 
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm ; 



Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly. 
Revenge, or death — the watchword and reply ; 
Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm. 
And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm ! 

In vain, alas ! in vain, ye gallant few ! 
From rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew : — 
Oh, bloodiest picture in the book of time, 
Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime ; 
Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe. 
Strength in her arm, nor mercy in her wee ! 
Dropt from her nerveless grasp the shattered 

spear, 
Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high 

career ; — 
Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell. 
And Freedom shrieked — as Kosciusko fell ! 

Thomas Campbell. 




■:■■ I -J-"^ f \^ \ 



THE PILGRIM. 



3^^m^ 



V I '"WAS only a wandering pilgrim 
I That slowly was treading along ; 

■*■ 'Twas only the portal to heaven 
That seemed to open in song. 
But I had been wondering sadly 
Of times that are borne in song. 

His hair, it was gray as the snowflakes ; 

His beard, it was hoary, too; 
While his wrinkled hand with palsy shakes. 

And a hazy mist is his view. 
While tottering on to that portal 

Which opens for me and for you. 

Ay ! strong returns the remembrance I 

Ay ! sad that form glided by ! 
But never a fuller accejitance 

Bequeathed to man from on high. 
And I will cherish it ever 

As a thing that cannot die. 

For may I not once roam as sadly 
The paths I now tread in glee ? 

And may not my thoughts once dream madly 
Of the foam on the restless sea ? 

Oh, will I then harbor in safety 
On the shores of eternity ? 



C'^- 



MY TRUNDLE BED. 

AS I rummaged through the attic, 
List'ning to the falling rain. 
As it pattered on the shingles 
And against the window pane ; 
Peeping over chests and boxes. 

Which with dust were thickly spread"; 
Saw I in the farthest corner 
What was once my trundle bed. 

So I drew it from the recess. 

Where it had remained so long. 
Hearing all the while the music . 

Of my mother's voice in song ; 
As she sung in sweetest accents, 

What I since have often read — 
" Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber, 

Holy angels guard thy bed." 

As I listened, happy hours. 

That I thought had been forgot, 
Came with all the gush of meniorv. 

Rushing, thronging to the spot ; 
And I wandered back to childhood, 

To those merry days of yore, 
When I knelt beside my mother, 

By this bed upon the floor. 



250 



HOPE AND MEMORY. 



T 



Then it was with hands so gently 

Placed upon my infant head, 
That she taught my lips to utter 

Carefully the words she said ; 
Never can they be forgotten, 

Deep are they in mem'ry graven — 
" Hallowed be thy name, O Father ! 

Father ! thou who art in heaven." 

Years have passed, and that dear mother 

Long has mouldered 'neath the sod, 
And I trust her sainted spirit 

Revels in the home of God : 
But that scene at summer twilight 

Never has from memory fled, 
And it comes in all its freshness 

When I see my truncle bed. 

This she taught me, then she told me 

Of its import, great and deep — 
After which I learned to utter, 

•' Now I lay me down to sleep: " 
Then it was with hands uplifted, 

And in accents soft and mild, 
That my mother asked — " Our Father ! 

Father ! do thou bless my child !" 

REMEMBRANCE. 

HE season comes when first we met. 
But you return no more ; 
Why cannot I the days forget, 
Which time can ne'er restore? 
O days too sweet, too bright to last, 
Are )0u indeed Ibrever past? 

The fleeting shadows of delight, 

In memory I trace : 
In fancy stop their rapid flight 

And all the past replace : 
But ah ! I wake to endless woes. 
And tears the fading ^i^ion, close ! 

Anne Hunter. 

"EMBER PICTURE." 

CLOSE by the embers 
liurning low, 
^^'hile she remembers 
Long ago, 
E'er the December's 
Drifted snow 
Silvered her soft brown hair: 
Pensively rocking 

To and fro ; 
Memories flocking 

Come and go ; 
Holding a stocking 
Long ago 
Worn by a baby fair. 

Sad as the sighing 

Winds that blow. 
Thoughts of one lying 



'Neath the snow, 
Flit through the dying 

Embers' glow ; 
And memories round her throng : 
Memories bringing 

Joy and woe — 
Drifting — clinging 

Like the snow. 
While she is singing 

Soft and low — 
Singing a cradle song. 

A LITTLE SONG OF HOPE. 

I'VE battled through adversity when skies were 
blue and bright 
To win of fickle fortune but a feather in the 
fight, 
An' I've never felt a flurry nor the smallest mite 

distressed, 
Till Sol had sunk to slumber in the cradle of the 
west. 

It always seemed that even, with its darkness an' 

its dew. 
Brought forth a host of pigmies, an' these little 

troubles grew 
Till, like Gulliver, they bound me, an' when hope 

had nearly gone, 
I felt a peace come stealing through the gateway 

of the dawn. 

I've lain awake so troubled, an' a-tossin' through 

the night, 
A-hopin' I'd be guided in the paths o' truth an' 

right, 
A-wrestlin' with my conscience over somethin' I 

had done. 
Or else a-plannin' duties with the risin' o' the sun ; 

An' I've conjured up the sorrows that it seemed 
were sure to fall 

Upon me an' to wrap me in a sort o' sombre pall; 

But the ills have always vanished when the morn- 
ing cried, Begone ! 

An' a dream o' peace came stealin' through the gate- 
way of the dawn. 

An' so I say to sinners, an' to saint ^ who strive as well. 
The cares that came upon you when the shades o' 

sorrow fell 
Will vanish with the vision of a soul-enlightened 

day. 
An' God will wipe the tear-drops from your swollen 

eyes away. 

The host of little worries that beset you through 
the night 

Shall flee in stealth, an', banished, shall be frown- 
ing in their flight, 

An' the rest will be the sweeter for the ills you've 
undergone 

When that holy peace comes stealing through the 
gateway of the dawn. R. F. Greene. 



HOPE AND MEMORY. 



261 



MEMORIES. 

A BEAUTIFUL and happy girl, 
With step as light as summer air, 
Eyes glad with smiles, and brow of pearl, 
Shadowed by many a careless curl 
Of unconfined and flowing hair; 




A seeming child in everything, 

Save thoughtful brow and ripening charms, 
As nature wears the smile of spring 

When sinking into summer's arms, 

A mind rejoicing in the light 

Which melted through its graceful bower, 
Leaf after leaf, dew-moist and bright. 
And stainless in its holy white. 

Unfolding like a morning flower ; 



A heart, which, like a fine-toned lute, 
With every breath of feeling woke, 

And, even when the tongue was mute. 
From eye and lip in music spoke. 

How thrills once more the lengthening chain 
Of memory, at the thought of thee ! 

Old hopes which long in dust 

have lain. 
Old dreams, come thronging 
back again. 
And boyhood lives again in 
me ; 
I feel its glow upon my cheek, 
Its fulness of the heart is 
mine. 
As when I leaned to hear thee 
speak, 
Or raised my doubtful eye 
to thine. 

I liear again thy low replies, 
I feel thine arm within my 
own. 
And timidly again uprise 
The fringed lids of hazel 
eyes, 
With soft brown tresses over- 
blown. 
Ah ! memories of sweet sum- 
mer eves, 
Of moonlit wave and wil- 
lowy way. 
Of stars and bowers, and dewy 
leaves, 
And smiles and tones more 
dear than they ! 

Ere this, thy quiet eye hath 
smiled 
My picture of thy youth to 
see, 
When, half a woman, half a 

child, 
Thy very artlessness beguiled. 
And folly's self seemed wise 
in thee ; 
I too can smile, when o'er that 
hour 
The lights of memory back- 
ward stream, 
Yet leel the while that manhood's power 
Is vainer than my boyhood's dream. 

Years have passed on, and left their trace 
Of graver care and deeper thought ; 

And unto me the calm, cold face 

Of manhood, and to thee the grace 
Of woman's pensive beauty brought. 

More wide, perchance, for blame than praise, 
The schoolboy's humble name has flown : 



252 



HOPE AND MEMORY. 



Thine, in the green and quiet ways 
Of unobtrusive goodness known. 

And wider yet in thought and deed 

Diverge our pathways, one in youth , 
Thine the Genevan's sternest creed, 
While answers to my spirit's need 

The Derby dalesman's simple truth. 
For thee, the priestly rite and prayer, 

And holy day, and solemn psalm ; 
For me, the silent reverence where 

My brethren gather, slow and calm. 

Yet hath thy spirit left on me 

An impress time has worn not out, 
And something of myself in thee, 
A shadow from the past, I see. 

Lingering, even yet, thy way about ; 
Not wholly can the heart unlearn 

That lesson of its better hours. 
Not yet has time's dull footstep worn 

To common dust that path of flowers. 

Thus, while at times before our eyes 

The shadows melt, and fall apart, 
And, smiling through them, round us lies 
The warm light of our morning skies — 

The Indian summer of the heart ! — 
In secret sympathies of mind. 

In founts of feeling which retain 
Their pure, fresh flow, we yet may find 

Our early dreams not wholly vain ! 

J. G. Whittier. 

THE UNHAPPY PAST. 

O MEMORY ! thou fond deceiver, 
Still importunate and vain ! 
To former joys recurring ever, 
And turning all the past to pain : 

Hence, intruder most distressing ! 

Seek the happy and the free : 
The wretch who wants each other blessing 

Ever wants a friend in thee. 

Oliver Goldsmith. 

HEAVENWARD. 

WOULD you be young again ? 
So would not I — 
One tear to memory given, 
Onward I'd hie. 
Life's dark flood forded o'er. 
All but at rest on shore. 
Say, would you plunge once more. 
With home so nigh ? 

If you might, would you now 

Retrace your way ? 
Wander through thorny wilds. 

Faint and astray ? 



Night's gloomy waters fled, 
Morning all beaming red, 
Hope's smiles around us shed, 
Heavenward — away. 

Where are they gone, of yore 

My best delight ? 
Dear and more dear, though now 

Hidden from sight. 
Where they rejoice to be, 
There is the land for me ; 
Fly, time — fly speedily, 

Come, life and light. 

Lady Nairne. 

NEVER DESPAIR. 

NEVER give up ! it is wiser and better 
Always to hope, than once to despair ; 
Fling off the load of doubt's cankering 
fetter. 
And break the dark spell of tyrannical care : 
Never give up or the burden may sink you — 

Providence kindly has mingled the cup; 
And in all trials and troubles, bethink you 

The watchword of life must be— never give up. 

M. F. TUPPER. 

IN MEMORIAM. 

THOU wert the first of all I knew 
To pass unto the dead, 
And Paradise hath seemed more true. 
And come down closer to my view, 
Since there thy presence fled. 

The whispers of thy gentle soul 

At silent lonely hours, 
Like some sweet saint-bell's distant toll 
Come o'er the waters, as they roll 

Betwixt thy world and ours. 

Oh ! still my spirit clings to thee, 

And feels thee at my side ; 
Like a green ivy, when the tree. 
Its shoots had clasped so lovingly. 

Within its arms hath died ; 

And ever round that lifeless thing 
Where first their clusters grew, 

Close as while yet it lived they cling. 

And shrine it in a second spring 
Of lustre dark and new. 

T. Whvtehead. 

SUN OF THE SOUL. 

SUN of the soul ! whose cheerful ray 
Darts o'er this gloom of life a smile ; 
Sweet hope, yet further gild my way, 

Yet light my weary steps awhile. 
Till thy fair lamp dissolve in endless day. 
J. Langhorne. 



HOPE AND MEMORY. 



253 



G 



EDEN FLOWERS. 

ENTLE mourner, fondly dreaming 
O'er the grave of buried years, 
Where the cold pale stars are gleaming 
Far along this vale of tears ; — 



Sweetest spring from thoughts of sadness 
Eden flowers that ne'er decay. 

Here, of mirth and anguish blended, 
Joys are born that cannot c'oy. 




Fond enthusiast, wildly gazing 

From ihe towers of childhood's home. 

On the visioned beacon's blazing 

Bright o'er ocean's sun-flushed foam ; — 

Hjpe's false mirage hides the morrow. 
Memory gilds the days gone by ; 

Give not thy young life to sorrow, 
Trust not joys that bloom to die. 

Fiercest throbs the pulse of gladness. 
Heralding a darker day ; 



Ending — not till life is ended — 
In the painless, endless joy. 

H. N. OXENHAM. 



w 



THE VISIONARY. 

HEN midnight o'er the moonless skies 
Her pall of transient death has spread, 
When mortals sleep, when spectres rise, 
And nought is wakeful but the dead ! 



No bloodless shape my way pursues, 
No sheeted ghost my couch annoys, 



254 



HOPE AND MEMORY. 



Visions more sad my fancy views, 
Visions of long departed joys ! 

The shade of youthful hope is there, 

That lingered long, and latest died ; 
Ambition all dissolved to air, 

With phantom honors at her side. 

SAD RECOLLECTIONS 



What empty shadows glimmer nigh ! 

They once were friendship, truth, and love ! 
Oh, die to thought, to memory die. 

Since lifeless to my heart ye prove 1 

W. E. Spencer. 



COLD in the earth — and the deep snow piled 
above thee. 
Far, far removed, cold in the dreary gravej 
Have I forgot, my only love, to love thee. 
Severed at last by time's all-severing wave ? 

Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover 
Over the mountains, on that northern shore, 

Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves 
cover 
Thy noble heart for ever, evermore? 



No later light has lightened up my heaven, 
No second morn has ever shone for me ; 

All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given. 
All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee. 

But when the days of golden dreams had per- 
ished, 
And even despair was powerless to destroy ; 
Then did I learn how existence could be cher- 
ished. 
Strengthened and fed without the aid of joy. 




Cold in the earth — and fifteen wild Decembers, 
From those brown hills, have melted into spring; 

Faithful, indeed, i"- the spirit that remembers 
After such years of change and suffering ! 

Sweet love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee, 
While the world's tide is bearing me along. 

Other desires and other hopes beset me, 

Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong ! 

LIGHT IN DARKNESS. 

FATIGUED with life, yet loath to part. 
On hope the wretch relies; 
And every blow that sinks the heart 
Bids the deluder rise. 

Hope, like the taper's gleamy light. 

Adorns the wretch's way ; 
And still, as darker grows the night. 

Emits a brighter ray. 

Oliver Goldsmith. 



Then did I check the tears of useless passion — 
Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;. 

Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten 

Down to that tomb, already more than mine. 

And even yet, I dare not let it languish, 

Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain; 

Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish. 
How could I seek the empty world again ? 

Emily Bronte. 

HOPE AND WISDOM. 

YOUTH is the virgin nurse of tender hope, 
And lifts her up and shows a far-off scene ; 
When care with heavy tread would interlope. 
They call the boys to shout her from the green. 

Ere long another comes, before whose eyes 

Nurseling and nurse alike stand mute and quail; 

Wisdom : to her hope not one word replies, 
And youth, lets drop the dear romantic tale. 

W. S. Landor. 



PATRIOTS AND HEROES: 



COMMEMORATING THEIR 



NOBLE SACRIFICES AND VALIANT DEEDS. 



THE LITTLE FIREMAN. 

\^' HAT do you think o' my youngster — he's a likely lad, sir, eh? 
'' You wouldn't think he was a hero in the amateur-fireman way. 

But he is. I can tell you a story that'll make you look and stare; 

How he brought down a lad at a fire, sir, from the top of that 
building there. 

It's a hospital, that's what it is, sir ; and it's nearly a fortnight ago 

Since a chum o' my Willie's went in, sir, on account of his health bein' 
low. 

And my Will he got an.\ious and worried, for he missed his young play- 
fellow bad, 

And he went about gloomy and grumpy, and always looked lonely and sad. 

He was constantly watching that window (the top one, up there to the right), 
And I'm certain, if I would a-let him, he'd a-looked at it all through the night; 
For his playfellow's bed lay near it, and my Willie knew that ijuite well, 
And to look at that window was pleasure, far more than we can tell. 




Well, he kept like that for some days, sir ; he was 
always a-watching that place, 

When he rushed into me one evening, with a look 
of alarm on his face. 

"It's on fire !" he shouted; " oh, fother, the hos- 
pital's all in a blaze !" 

And he looked at me with such eyes, sir, that I 
shrank from his terrified gaze. 

" Oh, father ! " he cried in his terror, and he seemed 

nigh ready to drop, 
" How can they get at poor Tommy? he's right at 

the very tip-top, 
It'll burn him right up to a cinder if he is obliged 

to stay ; 
I'll run out and tell them to fetch him," and he 

instantly darted away. 

I told him to stop, but he did'nt; so I followed 

him, sir, like mad, 
But he went on ahead like an engine, and the crush 

was fearfully bad ; 
The hospital, sir, was a-burning, and the flames 

getting fiercer and higher. 
While the firemen were working their hardest to 

get some control o' the fire. 

They were fetching the patients out too, sir, as 

quickly as ever they could. 
And the fire-escape men were all busy and doing a 

great deal of good ; 



But the friends of the patients were watching to 
see that they all were got out. 

And above all the roar of the flames, sir, we pre- 
sently heard a shout : 

"There's a boy at the top forgotten," and I thought 

o' my Will's little chum ; 
And my eyes grew heavy and dim, sir, for the 

great salt tears would come. 
The firemen seemed well nigh distracted, — the 

escape was on fire at the top ; 
And they said it was death to ascend it, for the 

ladder would certainly drop. 

But a lad dashed up that escape, sir, as it seemed 

to his certain death ; 
While the crowd stood speechless and silent, and 

every one held his breath. 
That boy was my Will, I could see him, by the 

light from the great red fire, 
And I felt — well, I can't tell how, sir, as I saw him 

mount higher and higher. 

For the ladder seemed all of a totter, but that boy 
of mine was so light 

That he got to the window in safety; and we saw 
him get in all right ; 

But he came out again in a second, and he carried 
a small white pack ; 

That bo\' had gone in after Tommy, and was bring- 
ing him down on his back. 

255 



256 



PATRIOTS AND HEROES. 



Such a cheer rent the heavens just then, sir, as I 
never shall hear again ; 

And the crowd got as mad as hatters, and shouted 
with might and main. 

But the lads got down safe to the ground, sir, and 
both of 'em fainted away; 

For after that dreadful excitement, 'twas no won- 
der at all, I sav. 



What had this young man done to merit immor- 
tality? The mission whose tragic issue lifted him 
out of the oblivion of other minor British officers, 
in its incejition was free from peril or daring, and 
its object and purijoses were utterly infamous. 
Had lie succeeded by the desecration of the hon- 
orable uses of passes and flags of truce, his name 
would have been held in everlasting execration. 



f--.^ 



v.. 



\m ( 




ARREST OF ANDRE. 



What do you think of him, now, sir? a likely lad, 

sir, eh ! 
There's not many youngsters a-going as could act 

in that sort of a way ; 
For he risked his own life for his playmate, and 

he's ready to do it still, 
So I hope there's no harm in my saying I'm proud 

of my Fireman Will. 

John F. Nicholls. 

ANDRE AND HALE. 

Andre's story is the one overmastering 
romance of the Revolution. American 
and English literature are full of elo- 
quence and poetry in tribute to his memory and 
sympathy for his fate. After a lapse of a hundred 
years there is no abatement of absorbing interest. 



In his failure, the infant republic escaped the dag- 
ger with which he was feeling for its heart, and the 
crime was drowned in tears for his untimely end. 

His youth and beauty, his skill with pen and 
pencil, his effervescing spirits and magnetic dis- 
])Osition, the brightness of his life, the calm cour- 
age in the gloom of his death, his early love and 
disappointment, and the image of his lost Honora 
hid in his mouth when captured in Canada, with 
the exclamation, "That saved, I care not for the 
loss of all the rest," and nestling in his bosom 
when he was slain, surrounded him with a halo of 
poetry and pity which have secured for him what 
he most sought and could never have won in bat- 
tles and sieges — a fame and recognition which have 
outlived that of all the generals under whom he 
served 



PATRIOTS AND HEROES. 



2bl 



Are kings only grateful, and do republics for- 
get ? Is fame a travesty, and the judgment of 
mankind a farce ? America had a parallel case in 
Captain Nathan Hale. Of the same age as Andre, 
he graduated at Yale college with high honors, 
enlisted in the patriot cause at the beginning of 
the contest, and secured the love and confidence 
of all about him. When none else would go on a 
most important and perilous mission, he volun- 
teered, and was captured by the British. 

While Andre received every kindness, courtesy 
and attention, and was fed from Washington's 
table. Hale was thrust into a noisome dungeon in 
the sugar-house. While Andre was tried by a 
board of officers, and had ample time and every 
facility for defence. Hale was summarily ordered 
to e.xecution the ne.\t morning. While Andre's 
last wishes and bequests were sacredly followed, 
the infamous Cunningham tore from Hale his 
letters to his mother and sister, and asked him 
what he had to say. "All I have to say," was 
Hale's reply, " is that I regret I have but one Ife 
to lose for my country." His death was concealed 
for months, because Cunningham said he did not 
want the rebels to know they had a man who could 
die so bravely. 

And yet, while Andre rests in that grandest of 
mausoleums, where the proudest of nations garners 
the remains and perpetuates the memories of its 
most eminent and honored, the name and deeds 
of Nathan Hale have passed into oblivion, and 
only a simple tomb in a village churchyard marks 
his resting-place. The dying declarations of 
Andre and Hale express the animating spirit of 
their several armies, and teach why, with all their 
power, England could not conquer America. "I 
call upon you to witness that I die like a brave 
man," said Andre, and he spoke from British and 
Hessian surroundings, seeking only glory and pay. 
"I regret that I have only one life to lose for my 
country," said Hale; and with him and his com- 
rades self was forgotten in that absorbing, passion- 
ate patriotism which pledges fortune, honor and 
life to the sacred cause. 

Chauncey M. Depew. 



I 



ANDRE'S REQUEST TO WASHINGTON. 

'T is not the fear of death 
That damps my brow. 
It is not for another breath 
I ask thee now ; 
I can die with a lip unstirred 

And a quiet heart — 
Let but this prayer be heard 
Ere I depart. 

I can give up my mother's look — 

My sister's kiss ; 
I can think of love — yet brook 

A death like this ! 

17 



I can give up the young fame 

I burned to win — 
All — but the spotless name 

I glory in. 

Thine is the power to give. 

Thine to deny, 
Joy for the hour I live — 

Calmness to die. 
By all the brave should cherish, 

By my dying breath, 
I ask that I may jierish 

By a soldier's death ! 

N. P. Willis. 

DYING FOR LIBERTY. 

AS by the shore, at break of day, 
A vanquished chief expiring lay, 
Upon the sands with broken sword, 
He traced his farewell to the free ; 
And there the last unfinished word 
He dying wrote, was " Liberty!" 

At night a sea-bird shrieked the knell 
Of him who thus for freedom fell ; 
The words he wrote, ere evening came. 

Were covered by the sounding sea; 
So pass away the cause and name 

Of him who dies for liberty I 

Thomas Moore. 

THE LONE GRAVE ON THE MOUNTAIN. 

ON the crest of the hills I found it, 
For the grave of a host there was room, 
For the pyramids of ^gyptus 
Are as naught to this lofty tomb. 
There he lies till the trump shall call him, 

In his grave on the hills, all alone ; 
Just a soldier's grave, so they told me. 
But yet one that a king might own. 

There he fell, there he died, there they laid him ; 

Though unmarked and forgot, 'tis a throne. 
What's his name ? He died for his country. 

Then what matter his name unknown? 
'Tis the act, not the actor, liveth ; 

'Tis the deeds which we do crown the grave; 
What life wins in transient glory ; 

It is death makes a king or slave. 

Here the sun's last blush lingers longest. 

Here the feet of the morning first come. 
And the thunder's voice speaketh his requiem. 

Like the roll of a funeral drum. 
See, the clouds above him are stooping. 

And they gather around him and weep; 
So I leave him, enwrapped in his glory, 

With his God, on the hills, asleep. 

Charles G. Beede. 



258 



PATRIOTS AND HEROES. 



I'M WITH 

I'M with you once again, my friends, 
No more my footsteps roam ; 
Where it began my journey ends, 
Amid the scenes of home. 
No other clime has skies so blue. 
Or streams so broad and clear. 
And where are hearts so warm and true 
As those that meet me here ? 

Since last, with spirits wild and free, 

I pressed my native strand, 
I've wandered many miles at sea. 

And many miles on land : 
I've seen fair regions of the earth 

With rude commotion torn. 
Which taught me how to prize the worth 

Of that where I was born. 



YOU ONCE AGAIN. 

In other countries when I heard 

The language of my own, 
How fondly each familiar word 

Awoke an answering tone ! 
But when our woodland songs were sung 

Upon a foreign mart 
The vows that faltered on the tongue 

With rapture thrilled my heart ! 

My native land ! I turn to you, 

With blessing and with prayer, 
Where man is brave and woman true. 

And free as mountain air. 
Long may our flag in triumph wave. 

Against the world combined, 
And friends a welcome — foes a grave. 

Within our borders find. 

George P. Morris. 



IT IS GREAT FOR OUR COUNTRY TO DIE. 



OH ! it is great for our country to die, where 
ranks are contending : 
Bright is the wreath of our fame ; glory 
awaits us for aye — 
Glory, that never is dim, shining on with light 
never ending — 
Glory that never shall fade, never, oh ! never 
away. 

Oh ! it is sweet for our country to die ! How softly 
reposes 
Warrior youth on his bier, wet by the tears of 
his love, 
Wet by a mother's warm tears; they crown him 
with garlands of roses, 
Weep, and then joyously turn, bright where he 
triumphs above. 

Not to the shades shall the youth descend, who for 
country hath perished ; 
Hebe awaits him in heaven, welcomes him there 
with her smile ; 



There, at the banquet divine, the patriot spirit is 
cherished ; 
Gods love the young who ascend pure from the 
funeral pile. 

Not to Elysian fields, by the still, oblivious river; 
Not to the isles of the blest, over the blue, roll- 
ing sea ; 
But on Olympian heights shall dwell the devoted 
forever ; 
There shall assemble the good, there the wise, 
valiant and free. 

Oh ! then, how great for our country to die, in the 
front rank to perish. 
Firm with our breast to the foe, victory's shout 
in our ear ! 
Long they our statues shall crown, in songs our 
memory cherish ; 
We shall look forth from our heaven, pleased 
the sweet music to hear. 

James G. Percival. 




.•S5?S?2«'" 






PATRIOTS AND HEROES. 



259 



THE CUBAN CRISIS. 

RED is the setting sun, 
Redder the Cuban sod ; 
Maceo's valiant fight is done 
For freedom and for God. 
The long-leaved pine and the stately palm 

Bend lowly in grief to-night, 
And through the hush of the tropic calm 
There rolls from the sea a mournful psalm, 
A requiem over the right. 

Honored with many scars 

Now lies the hero brave ; 
Pityingly the southern stars 

Weep o'er the martyr's grave. 
While night winds whisper of deeds so fell 

That nature shudders in sleep, 
And every tree in the crimson dell 
Mutters a secret most dread to tell 

Of treachery foul and deep. 

Every land shall know, 

Heaven and earth shall see ; 
The whole world weeps when a traitor's blow 

Strikes at the brave and free. 
But from Havana comes clang of bells, 

Borne gaily across the lea 
From Morro Castle, where Weyler dwells, 
A drunken wassail the clamor swells 

With plaudits and fiendish glee. 

Dark seem the midnights there, 

Dark are the crimes they blot ; 
But darker still are the dungeons where 

The friends of freedom rot. 
Their chains clank dull on the slimy walls. 

Their festering bones protrude ; 
And day after day the death bell tolls 
As the drifting smoke from the slaughter rolls, 

'Mid jeers from the multitude ! 

Red is the rising sun. 

Red with the wrath of God ; 
For Cuba reddens in streams that run 

With blood where her tyrants have trod. 
Still flows to the sea the scarlet tide ; 

How long shall it last, O Lord ! 
But hell rolls on where the Spaniards ride, 
And frenzied women in terror hide 

From a fate far worse than the sword. 

Our skies are obscured with smoke. 

Our seas are stained with blood ; 
Our hills still echo the butcher's stroke 

Across the crimson flood. 
Our flag insulted, our brothers slain. 

At last awakens our land ; 
Now sweeps a tempest from every plain. 
Our sovereign people have challenged Spain, 

The judgment hour is at hand. 

Louis S. Amonson. 



THE LITTLE DRUMMER. 

AT his post, the little major 
Dropped his drum, that battle day ; 
On the field, all stained with crimson, 
Through that battle-night he lay. 
Crying, " Oh, for love of Jesus, 
Grant me but this little boon, 
Can you, friends, refuse me water — 
Can you, when I die so soon !" 

There were none to help or save him ; 

All his friends had early fled, 
Save the forms outstretched around him 

Of the dying and the dead. 
Hush ! they come, there falls a footstep — 

How it makes his heart rejoice; 
They will help, oh, they will save him, 

When they hear his fainting voice. 

See, the lights are flourishing round him. 

And he hears a loyal word ; 
Strangers they whose lips pronounce it. 

Yet he trusts his voice is heard ; 
It was heard — oh, God forgive them. 

They refuse his dying prayer ; 
" Nothing but a wounded drummer," 

So they say, and leave him there. 

See, the moon that shone above him 

Veils her face as if in grief. 
And the skies are sadly weeping. 

Shedding tear-drops of relief. 
Oh, to die, by friends forsaken. 

With his last request denied ; 
This he frets his keenest anguish. 

When at morn he gas[)ed and died. 

THE POOR VOTER ON ELECTION DAY. 

THE proudest now is but my peer, 
The highest not more high ; 
To-day, of all the weary year, 
A king of men am L 
To-day, alike are great and small. 

The nameless and the known ; 
My palace is the people's hall. 
The ballot-box my throne ! 

Who serves to-day upon the list 

Beside the served shall stand ; 
Alike the brown and wrinkled fist, 

The gloved and dainty hand ! 
The rich is level with the poor. 

The weak is strong to-day ; 
And sleekest broadcloth counts no more 

Than homespun frock of gray. 

To-day let pomp and vain pretence 

My stubborn right abide ; 
I set a plain man's common sense 

Against the pedant's pride. 



260 



PATRIOTS AND HEROES. 



N 



To-day shall simple manhood try 
The strength of gold and land ; 

The wide world has not wealth to buy 
The power in my right hand ! 

While there's a grief to seek redress, 

Or balance to adjust 
Where weighs our living manhood less 

Than Mammon's vilest dust — 
While there's a right to need my vote, 

A wrong to sweep away, 
Up ! clouted knee and ragged coat ! 

A man's a man to-day ! 

J. G. Whittier. 

A BRAVE MAN. 

O common object to your sight displays, 
But what with pleasure heaven itself sur- 
ve)s, 

A brave man struggling in the storm of fate. 
And greatly falling with a falling state. 
While Cato gives his little senate laws, 
What bosom beats not in his country's cause ! 
Who sees him act, but envies every deed ? 
Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed? 

Alexander Pope. 

PATRIOTISM AND FREEDOM. 

INSENSIBLE to high heroic deeds, 
Is there a spirit clothed in mortal weeds, 
Who at the patriot's moving story 
Devoted to his country's good, 

Devoted to his country's glory, 
Shedding for freemen's rights his generous blood — 
Listeneth not with deep heaved, high, 
Quivering nerve, and glistening eye. 
Feeling within a spark of heavenly flame, 
That with the hero's worth may humble kindred 

claim ? 
If such there be, still let him plod 
On the dull foggy paths of care, 
Nor raise his eyes from the dank sod 

To view creation fair : 
What boots to him the wondrous works of God ? 
His soul with brutal things hath ta'en its earthly 
lair. 

Oh 1 who so base as not to feel 

The pride of freedom once enjoyed, 

Though hostile gold or hostile steel 
Have long that bliss destroyed ! 

The meanest drudge will sometimes vaunt 
Of independent sires who bore 
Names known to fame in days of yore, 

Spite of the smiling stranger's taunt ; 

But recent freedom lost — what heart 

Can bear the humbling thought — the quick' ning 
mad'ning smart ? 

Joanna Baillie. 



ROMERO : 



A FUGITIVE FROM MEXICO. 



w 



HEN freedom, from the land of Spain, 

By Spain's degenerate sons was driven. 
Who gave their willing limbs again 
To wear the chain so lately riven ? 
Romero broke the sword he wore — 
"Go, faithful band," the warrior said, 
" Go, undishonored, never more 

The blood of man shall make thee red : 
I grieve for that already shed ; 
And I am sick at heart to know, 
That faithful friend and noble foe 
Have only bled to make more strong 
The yoke that Spain has worn so long. 
Wear it who will, in abject fear — 

I wear it not who have been free ; 
The perjured Ferdinand shall hear 
No oath of loyalty from me." 

Then, hunted by the hounds of power, 

Romero chose a safe retreat, 
Where bleak Nevada's summits tower 

Above the beauty at their feet. 
There once, when on his cabin lay 
The crimson light of setting day, 
When even on the mountain's breast 
The chainless winds were all at rest. 
And he could hear the river's flow 
From the calm paradise below ; 
Warmed with his former fires again. 
He framed this rude but solemn strain : 

" Here will I make my home— for here at least I 

see, 
Upon this wild Sierra's side, the steps of liberty ; 
Where the locust chirps unscared beneath the un- 

pruned lime. 
And the merry bee doth hide from man the spoil 

of the mountain thyme ; 
Where the pure winds come and go, and the wild 

vine gads at will. 
An outcast from the haunts of man, she dwells with 

nature still. 

" I see the valleys, Spain ! where thy mighty rivers 

run. 
And the hills that lift thy harvests and vineyards 

to the sun. 
And the flocks that drink thy brooks and sirinkle 

all the green. 
Where lie thy plains, witli sheep-walks seamed, and 

olive-shades between : 
I see thy fig-trees bask, with the fair pomegranate 

near. 
And the fragrance of thy lemon-groves can almost 

reach me here. 

"Fair — fair — but fallen Spain! 'tis with a swell- 
ing heart, 



PATRIOTS AND HEROES. 



261 



That I think on all thou mightst have been, and 
look at what thou art ; 

But the strife is over now, and all the good and 
brave, 

That would have raised thee up, are gone, to exile 
or the grave. 

Thy fleeces are for monks, thy grapes for the con- 
vent feast, 

And the wealth of all thy harvest-fields for the 
pampered lord and priest. 



" But I shall see the day, it will come before I die, 
I shall see it in my silver hairs, and with an age- 
dimmed eye ; — 
When the spirit of the land to liberty shall bound. 
As yonder fountain leaps away from the darkness 

of the ground ; 
And to my mountain cell, the voices of the free 
Shall rise, as from the beaten shore the thunders 
of the sea." 

W. C. Bryant. 




^ yt^'^^^\ 



qM^' 



HARLECH CASTLE. 



MARCH OF THE MEN OF HARLECH. 

The War of the Roses was a disastrous straggle which 
desolated England during the fifteentli century. It was so 
called because the two factions into which the country was 
divided upheld the claims to the throne of I lie Houses of 
York and Lancaster, whose badges were the white and the 
red rose respectively. Harlech is an ancient town of North 
Wales, situated on the sea coast. On a steep hill overlook- 
ing the stream is its massive castle, which held out for the 
House of Lancaster in the War of the Roses and later for 



Charles I. The "March of the Men of Harlech" 
memorates its capture by the Yorkists in 1468. 

MEN of Harlech ! in the hollow. 
Do you hear, like rushing billow. 
Wave on wave that surging follow. 
Battle's distant sound ? 
'Tis the tramp of Saxon foeman, 
Saxon spearsmen, Saxon bowmen, 



262 



PATRIOTS AND HEROES. 



Be they knights, or hinds, or yeomen, 

They shall bite the ground ! 
Loose thy folds asunder, 
Flag we conquer under ! 

The jjlacid sky now bright on high 
Shall launch its bolts in thunder ! 
Onward, 'tis our country needs us. 
He is bravest, he who leads us ! 
Honor's self now proudly heads us ! 

Freedom, God and Right ! 

Cambria, God and Right ! 
He is bravest, he who leads us ! 
Honor's self now proudly heads us ! 

Cambria, God and Right ! 
Rocky steeps and passes narrow 
Flash with spear and flight of arrow ; 
Who would think of pain or sorrow ? 



Death is glory nosv. 
Hurl the reehng horsemen over! 
Let the earth dead foemen cover ! 
Fate of friend, of wife, of lover. 

Trembles on a blow ! 
Strands of life are riven. 
Blow for blow is given, 

In deadly lock or battle shock. 
And mercy shrieks to heaven ! 
Men of Harlech ! young or hoary. 
Would you win a name in story ? 
Strike for home, for life, for glory ! 

Freedom, God and right ! 

Cambria, God and Right ! 
Would \ou win a name in story? 
Strike lor home, for life, for glory, 

Cambria, God and Rii/ht ! 



BEAUTY OF HEROIC DEEDS. 



THE presence of a higher, namely, of the spirit- 
ual element is essential to its perfection. 
The high and divine beauty which can be 
loved without effeminacy, is that which is 
found in combination with the human will, and 
never separate. Beauty is the mark God sets upon 
virtue. Every natural action is graceful. Every 
heroic act is also decent, and causes the place and 
the bystanders to shine. We are taught by great 
actions that the universe is the property of every 
individual in it. Every rational creature has all 
nature for his dowry and estate. It is his, if he 
will. He may divest himself of it ; he may creep 
into a corner, and abdicate his kingdom, as most 
men do ; but he is entitled to the world by his 
constitution. In proportion to the energy of his 
thought and will, he takes up the world into 
himself. 

'' All those things for which men plough, build 
or sail, obey virtue;" said an ancient historian. 
"The winds and waves," said Gibbon, "are 
always on the side of the ablest navigators." So 
are the sun and moon and all the stars of heaven. 
When a noble act is done — perchance in a scene 
of great natural beauty ; when Leonidas and his 
three hundred martyrs consume one day in dying, 
and the sun and moon come each and look at 
them once in the steep defile of Thermopylae ; 
when Arnold Winkelried, in the high Alps, under 
the shadow of the avalanche, gathers in his side a 
sheaf of Austrian spears to break the line for his 
comrades ; are not these heroes entitled to add 
the beauty of the scene to the beauty of the deed ? 



'When the bark of Columbus nears the shore of 
America — before it, the beacli lined with savages, 
fleeing out of all their huts of cane; the sea be- 
hind ; and the purple mountains of the Indian 
Archipelago around, can we separate the man 
from the living picture? Does not the New 
World clothe his form with her palm-groves and 
savannahs as fit drapery? Ever does natural 
beauty steal in like air, and envelop great actions. 
When Sir Harry Vane was dragged up the Tower- 
hill, sitting on a sled, to suffer death, as the cham- 
pion of the English laws, one of the multitude 
cried out to him, "You never sate on so glorious 
a seat." Charles II., to intimidate the citizens of 
London, caused the patriot Lord Russel to be 
drawn in an open coach through the principal 
streets of the city on his way to the scaffold. 
"But," to use the simple narrative of his biog- 
rapher, " the multitude imagined they saw liberty 
and virtue sitting by his side." 

In private places, among sordid objects, an act 
of truth or heroism seems at once to draw to itself 
the sky as its temple, the sun as its candle. Nature 
stretcheth out her arms to embrace man, only let 
his thoughts be of equal greatness. Willingly 
does she follow his steps with the rose and the 
violet, and bend her lines of grandeur and grace 
to the decoration of her darling child. Only let 
his thoughts be of equal scope, and the frame will 
suit the picture. A virtuous man is in unison with 
her works, and makes the central figure of the 
visible sphere. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 



THE FATHERS OF THE REPUBLIC. 



TO be cold and breathless, to feel not and 
speak not, — this is not the end of existence 
to the men who have breathed their spirits 
into the institutions of their country, who have 
stamped their characters on the pillars of the age. 



who have poured their heart's blood into the chan- 
nels of the public prosperity. 

Tell me, ye who tread the sods of yon sacred 
height, is Warren dead ? Can you not still see 
him — not pale and prostrate, the blood of his 



PATRIOTS AND HEROES. 



2G3 



gallant heart pouring out of his ghastly wound, but 
moving resplendent over the field of honor, witli 
the rose of heaven upon his cheek, and the fire of 
liberty in his eye? 

Tell nie, ye who make your pious pilgrimage to 
the shades of Vernon, is Washington indeed shut 
up in the cold and narrow house ? That which 
made these men, and men like these, cannot die. 

The hand that traced the charter of Independ- 
ence is, indeed, motionless ; the eloquent lips that 
sustained it are hushed ; but the lolty spirits that 
conceived, resolved and maintained it, and which 
alone, to such men, make it life to live — these can- 
not expire. Edward Everett. 

THE INCORRUPTIBLE PATRIOT. 

Governor Johnstone, of New Jersey, is said to have offered 
Gen. Joseph Reed filty thousand dollars if he would try to 
re-unite the colonies to the mother country. Said he, " I am 
not worth purchasing ; but, such as I am, the King of Great 
Britain is not rich enough to buy me." 

I SPURN your gilded bait, oh. King ! my faith 
you cannot buy ; 
Go, tamper with some craven heart, and dream 
of victory ; 
My honor never shall be dimmed by taking such 

a bribe ; 
The honest man can look above the mercenar}- 
tribe. 

Carlisle and Eden may consort to bring about a 

a peace ; 
Our year of jubilee will be the year of our release. 
Until your fleets and armies are all remanded back. 
Freedom's avenging angel will keep upon your 

track. 

What said our noble Laurens ? What answer did 

he make ? 
Did he accept your overtures, and thus our cause 

forsake ? 
No ! as his country's mouth-piece, he spoke the 

burning words, 
*' Off with conciliation's terms — the battle is the 

Lord's!" 

Are ye afraid of Bourbon's house? And do ye 

now despair. 
Because to shield the perishing the arm of France 

is bare ? 
That treaty of alliance, which makes a double strife. 
Has, like the sun, but warmed afresh your viper 

brood to life. 

And art thou, Johnstone, art thou, pray, upon this 
mission sent, 

To keep at distance, by thy craft, the throne's dis- 
memberment ? 

Dismemberment ! — ah, come it must, for union is 
a sin, 

"When parents' hands the furnace heat, and thrust 
the children in. 



Why, English hearts there are at home, that pul- 
sate with our own ; 

Voices beyond Atlantic's waves send forth a loving 
tone ; 

Within the Cabinet are men who would not offer 
gold, 

To see our country's liberty, like chattel, bought 
and sold. 

You say that office shall be mine if I the traitor 

play : 
Can office ever compensate for honesty's decay? 
Ten thousand pounds! ten thousand pounds! Shall 

I an Esau prove. 
And for a mess of pottage sell the heritage I love? 

If you can blot out Bunker Hill, or Brandywine 

ignore. 
Or Valley Forge annihilate, and wipe away its gore; 
If you can make the orphans' tears forget to plead 

with God, 
Tlien you may find a patriot's soul that owns a 

monarch's nod. 

The King of England cannot buy the faith which 

fills my heart ; 
My truth and virtue cannot stand in traffic's servile 

mart ; 
For till your fleets and armies are all remanded 

back. 
Freedom's avenging angel will keep upon your 

track. Edward C. Jones. 

REDMOND, IN ROKEBY HALL. 

WILFRED has fallen— but o'er him stood 
Young Redmond, soiled with smoke and 
blood 
Cheering his mates, with heart and hand 
Still to make good their desperate stand. 
" Up, comrades, up I in Rokeby halls 
Ne'er be it said our courage falls — 
What faint ye for their savage cry. 
Or do the smoke-wreaths daunt your eye ? 
These rafters have returned a shout 
As loud at Rokeby's wassail rout ; 
As thick a smoke these hearths have given 
At Hallowtide or Christmas even. 
Stand to it yet I renew the fight. 
For Rokeby and Matilda's right ! 
These slaves ! they dare not, hand to hand. 
Bide buffet from a true man's brand." 

Sir Walter Scott. 

COURAGE ENSURES SUCCESS. 

NO, there is a necessity in fate. 
Why still the brave bold man is fortunate ; 
He keeps his object ever full in sight, 
And that assurance holds him firm and right ; 
True, 'tis a narrow way that leads to bliss, 
But right before there is no precipice; 
Fear makes men look aside, and so their footing 
miss. John Dryden. 



264 



PATRIOTS AND HEROES. 



DO OR DIE. 

I DETEST that waiting; though it seems so safe 
to fight 
Behind high walls, and hurl down foes into 
Deep fosses, or behold them sprawl on spikes 
Strewed to receive them, still I like it not — 
My soul seems lukewarm ; but when I set on them 
Though they were piled on mountains I would 

have 
A pluck at them, or perish in hot blood ! 
Let me then charge ! 

Lord Byron. 

HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF 
BETHLEHEM, 

AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKl's BANNER. 
Count Pulaski, a celebrated Polish officer, was bom of dis" 
tinguished parentage in 1747. Taking up arms against the 
Russian invaders, he commanded in many battles and sieges 
and performed many daring exploits. His fame as a warrior 
was unrivaled. He went into exile in 1 772, and entered the 
service of the United States five years later. Four days after 
the battle of Brandywine he was appointed commander of 
the cavalry with the rank of brigadier-general. He resigned 
his command and raised a body called Pulaski's Legion, 
which was ordered to South Carolina early in 1779. He was 
killed in the autumn of that year at the siege of Savannah, 
The occasion of presenting to him a banner forms the subject 
of the following poem : 

WHEN the dying flame of day 
Through the chancel shot its ray, 
Far the glimmering tapers shed 
Faint light on the cowled head ; 
And the censer burning swung, 
Where, before the altar, hung 
The blood-red banner, that with prayer 
Had been consecrated there. 

And the nun's sweet hymn was heard the while, 
Sung low in the dim, mysterious aisle. 

" Take thy banner ! May it wave 
Proudly o'er the good and brave; 
When the battle's distant wail 
Breaks the sabbath of our vale, 
When the clarion's music thrills 
To the hearts of these lone hills, 
When the spear in conflict shakes, 
And the strong lance shivering breaks. 

" Take thy banner ! and, beneath 
The battle-cloud's encircling wreath, 
Guard it ! — till our homes are free ' 
Guard it ! — God will prosper thee ! 
In the dark and trying hour, 
In the breaking forth of power. 
In the rush of steeds and men, 
His right hand will shield thee then. 

" Take thy banner! But, when night 
Closes round the ghastly fight. 
If the vanquished warrior bow. 
Spare him ! — By our holy vow, 



By our prayers and many tears, 

By the mercy that endears. 

Spare him ! — he our love hath shared ! 

Spare him! — as thou wouldst be spared ! 

" Take thy banner! — and if e'er 
Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier, 
And the muffled drum should beat 
To the tread of mournful feet, 
Then this crimson flag shall be 
Martial cloak and shroud for thee." 

The warrior took that banner proud. 
And it was his martial cloak and shroud ! 

H. W. Longfellow. 

RETURN OF THE HILLSIDE LEGION. 

WH.'X.T telegraphed word 
The village hath stirred? 
Why eagerly gather the people ; 
And why do they wait 
At crossing and gate — 
Why flutters yon flag on the steeple ? 

Wall, stranger, do tell — 

It's now a smart spell 
Since our sogers went marchin' away. 

And we calculate now, 

To show the boys how 
We can welcome the Legion to-day. 

Bill Allendale's drum 

Will sound when they come, 
And there's watchers above on the hill, 

To let us all know. 

When the big bugles blow, 
To hurrali with a hearty good will. 

All the women folks wait 

By the 'Cademy gate. 
With jOTsies all drippin' with dew; 

The Legion shan't say 

We helped them away, 
And forgot them when the service was through. 

My Jack's comin', too. 

He's served the war through ; 
Hark ! the rattle and roar of the train ! 

There's the bugle and drum. 

Our sogers have come. 
Hurrah ! for the boys home again. 

" Stand aside I stand aside! 

Leave a space for and wide 
Till the regiment forms on the track." 

Two soldiers in blue — 

Two men — only two 
Stepped off, and the Legion was back. 

The hurrah softly died, 
In the space far and wide. 
As they welcomed the worn, weary men; 



\ 



PATRIOTS AND HEROES. 



265 



The drum on the hill 
Grew suddenly still, 
And the bugle was silent again. 

I asked Farmer Shore 

A question no more, 
For a sick soldier lay on his breast ! 

While his hand, hard and brown. 

Stroked tenderly down. 
The locks of the weary at rest. 

Ethel Lynn. 

PATRICK HENRY. 

NO individual influenced by his eloquence the 
cause of the American Revolution more 
than did Patrick Henry. His great speech 
before the Virginian Con- 
vention has become historic, 
passages of which have been 
read and committed to mem- 
ory by almost every school- 
boy from that time to the 
present. He insisted on the 
necessity of fighting for in- 
dependence, and closed with 
the words, " Give me lib- 
erty or give me death!" 

He was constantly in ad- 
vance of the most ardent 
patriots, suggesting and car- 
rying into effect by his im- 
mediate personal influence 
measures that were opposed 
as premature and violent by 
all the eminent supporters of the cause of 
liberty. Although unpromising and shiftless 
in his early youth, he ripened out into a noble 
manhood, and, being inspired by the struggle 
for independence, he used all the resource of 
his burning eloquence in favor of the colonies, 
and has left behind him a name as a patriot 
and an orator which history delights to commemo- 
rate and advancing time does not eclipse. 

HEROES OF THE MINES. 

ID many strangely thrilling tales 

That time to a wondering world con- 
signs. 
Is one from the rock-rent hills of Wales ; 

Where men, down deep in its dark coal mines, 
Were there enclosed by the fire-damp's shock. 

Imprisoned fast in the fearful gloom ; 

While countless tons of the ruptured lock 

Confined them there in a living tomb. 

Grouped overhead were the weeping wives, 
And men with faces stern and still. 

Who sadly thought of the hundred lives 

That death had claimed in the trembling hill ; 

Or watched, impatient, the curling smoke 
That rose from the burning mine below; 



And the roaring flames, that raged and broke 
Like the waves of hell in their crimson flow. 

Long hours they waited, then work began — 

With a fierce desire to seek their dead ; 
And no one shrank from the risk he ran, 

But hearts were heavy with grief, as lead. 
And they vainly hoped th.it a chosen few. 

In the chambers somewhere beneath the ground. 
Had refuge sought, and perhaps lived through, 

And 'scaped the fate that the rest had found. 

They fiercely labored through many days. 
Nor paused to rest in the darksome night. 

And slowly opened the cumbered ways, 
Where many a bloody and ghastly sight 




M' 



They met, in working and toiling by ; 

And mangled corpses were sent above, 
Where hillsides echoed the anguished cry 

Of some poor creature's de-pairing love. 

But on they went ; for they found not all, 

Though hundreds lay in the grasp of death- 
.•\nd hourly hastened to catch the call 

Of some poor wretch with expiring breath, 
Who might have lived in a rock-hewn grave, 

To hear the rapid but deadened sound 
That told him comrades had sought to save. 

And wrest its prey from the flinty ground. 

When, sudden, a sound the stillness broke, 
As the sound of waters far away ; 

While each arrested his falling stroke. 
No frozen statues as still as they 

Who looked and listened in rapt surprise 
To the shivering echoes, low and long, 



266 



PATRIOTS AND HEROES. 



While through the caverns fall and rise 
The solemn chant of a sacred song. 

A song that all, in their native tongue, 

Had listened to on their mother's breast, 
And heard in trembling accents sung 

When friends were laid in the grave to rest; 
A hymn so old, as to form a part 

Of the oldest legends the Welshmen knew, 
To cling to their inmost soul and heart, 

As the old home anthems ever do : 



To the Christian's glad, triumphant strain, 

That looked with trust to an awlul death; 
That proudly conquered despair and pain. 

And sang sweet songs with the latest breath. 
No higher heroes in ancient days. 

Who proudly figure in glorious tales. 
Had stronger claims to the hero's praise 

Than these rough men in the mines of Wales. 

Then the seeking miners bent their powers 
Till the sturdy strokes fell thick and fast, 




" In the deep and angry billows 

None can raise my sinking head 
But my fond and faithful Saviour, 

Who hath lived and died instead. 
Friend of friends in death's dark river. 

Firm support upon the wave, 
Seeing him I sing contented 

Though death's waters round me rave." 

Thus distant voices sang the song, 

Afaint with fasting, but not with fears ; 
For the brave old miners' hearts were strong. 

While listening comrades heard with tears 
The notes that the prisoned miners sang. 

Who knew not yet that help drew nigh. 
Till the dismal death-trap's echoes rang 

With the fearless faith that dared to die ; 



And working bravely a (evr short hours. 
They rescued the little band at last ; 

But some were discovered, alas, too late; 
While those surviving the bitter fright 

Bore such dread marks of their cruel fate 
That strong men wept at the woeful sight 

For hunger's clutches had marked each face 

With the sign of suffering branded deep, 
And the lines that pain's sharp pencils trace 

On the forms that such dread vigils keep. 
'Tis a simple story, sad but true. 

Of the humble heroes, rough and brave, 
Who sang a grand old anthem through 

In the gloomy depth of a living grave — 
One of the sadly simple tales 
Of life and death in the mines of Wales. 

J. Edgar Jones. 



PATRIOTS AND HEROES. 



267 



THE LITTLE MAYFLOWER. 

AND now — for the fulness of time is come — 
let us go up once more, in imagination, to 
yonder liill, and look out ui)on the Novem- 
ber scene. That single dark speck, just discernible 
through the perspective glass, on the waste of 
waters, is the fated vessel. The storm moans 
through her tattered canvas, as she creeps, almost 
sinking, to her anchorage in Provincetown harbor; 
I and there she lies, with all her treasures, not of 
j.iilver and gold (for of these she has none), but of 
courage, of patience, of zeal, of high spiritual 
daring. 

So often as I dwell in imagination on this scene ; 
when I consider the condition of the Mayflower, 
utterly incapable, as she was, of living through 
another gale ; when I survey the terrible front 
presented by our coast to the navigator who, unac- 
quainted with its channels and roadsteads, should 
approach it in the stormy season, I dare not call it 
a mere piece of good fortune, that the general 
north and south wall of the shore of New England 
should be broken by this extraordinary projection 
of the ca])e, running out into the ocean a hundred 
miles, as if on purpose to receive and encircle the 
precious vessel. 

(^s I now see her, freighted with the destinies of 
a continent, barely escaped from the perils of the 
deep, approaching the shore precisely where the 
broad sweep of this most remarkable headland 
presents almost the only point at which, for hun- 
dreds of miles, she could, with any ease, have made 
a harbor, and this, perhaps, the very best on the 
seaboard, I feel my spirit raised above the sphere 
of mere natural agencies. 

I see the mountains of New England rising from 
their rocky thrones. They rush forward into the 
ocean, settling down as they advance ; and there 
they range themselves, as a mighty bulwark around 
the heaven-directed vessel. Yes, the everlasting 
God himself stretches out the arm of his mercy 
and his power, in substantial manifestation, and 
gathers the meek company of his worshippers as 
in the hollow of his hand. Edward Everett. 

THE DRUMJHER BOY OF SHILOH. 

ON Shiloh's dark and bloody ground the dead 
and wounded lay ; 
Among them was a drummer boy who beat 
the dnmi that day ; 
A wounded soldier held him up, his drum was by 

his side ; 
He clasped his hands and raised his eyes, and 
prayed before he died. 

"Look down upon the battlefield, O, thou our 

Heavenly Friend ; 
Have mercy on our sinful souls ;" the soldiers cried 

Amen ; 



For gathered 'round a little group each brave man 

knelt and cried ; 
They listened to the drummer boy, who prayed 

before he died. 

"Oh, mother," said the dying boy, "look down 

from heaven on me ; 
Receive me to thy fond embrace, O take me home 

to thee ; 
Fve loved my country as my God, to serve them 

both I've tried." 
He smiled, shook hands; death seized the boy, 

who prayed before he died. 

Each soldier wept then like a child, stout hearts 

were they and brave ; 
The flag his winding sheet; God's book the key 

unto his grave ; 
They wrote upon a simple board these words : 

" This is a guide 
To those who'd mourn the drummer boy, who 

prayed before he died." 

Ye angels 'round the throne of grace, look down 
upon the braves 

Who fought and died on Shiloh's i)lain now slum- 
bering in their graves; 

How many homes made desolate, how many hearts 
have sighed, 

How many like the drummer boy, who prayed 
before he died ! 

THE MAN WITH THE MUSKET. 

SOLDIERS pass on from this rage of renown, 
This ant-hill, commotion and strife. 
Pass by where the marbles and bronzes look 
down 
With their fast-frozen gestures of life. 
On, out to the nameless who lie 'neath the gloom 

Of the pitying cypress and pine ; 
Your man is the man of the sword and the plume. 
But the man of the musket is mine. 

I knew him ! By all that is noble, I knew 

This commonplace hero I name ! 
I've camped with him, marched wuth him, fought 
with him, too. 

In the swirl of the fierce battle-flame ! 
Laughed with him, cried with him, taken a part 

Of his canteen and blanket, and known 
That the throb of his chivalrous prairie boy's heart 

Was an answering stroke of my own. 

I knew him, I tell you ! And, also, I knew 

When he fell on the battle-swept ridge, 
That poor battered body that lay there in blue 

AVas only a plank in the bridge 
Over which some should pass to a fame 

That shall shine while the high stars shall shine ! 
Your hero is known by an echoing name, 

But the man with the musket is mine. 



268 



PATRIOTS AND HEROES. 



I knew him ! All thr ou'^h him the good and the 
bad 
Ran together and equally free ; 
But I judge as I trust Christ will judge the brave 
lad, 
For death made him noble to me ! 

In the cyclone of war, in the battle's eclipse 

Life shook off its lingering sands. 
And he died with the names that he loved on his 
lips, 

His musket still grasped in his hands ! 



So darkly glooms yon thunder-cloud, 
That swathes, as with a purple shroud, 
Benledi's distant hill. 

Is it the thunder's solemn sound 

That mutters deep and dread. 
Or echoes from the groaning ground 

The warrior's measured tread ? 
Is it the lightning's quivering glance 

That on the thicket streams. 
Or do they flash on spear and lance 

The sun's retiring beams? 




I 



Up close to the flag my soldier went down. 

In the salient front of the line ; 
You may take for your heroes the men of renown, 

But the man of the musket is mine. 

H. S. Taylor. 

BATTLE OF BEAL' AN' DUINE. 

THE Minstrel came once more to view 
The eastern ridge of Benvenue, 
For ere he parted, he would say 
Farewell to lovely I^och Achray. 
Where shall he find, in foreign land, 
So lone a lake, so sweet a strand ? 
There is no breeze upon the fern, 
No ripple on the lake, 
Upon her aerie nods the erne. 
The deer has sought the brake. 
The small birds will not sing aloud. 
The springing trout lies still, 



I see the dagger-crest of Mar, 
I see the Moray's silver star. 
Wave o'er the cloud of Saxon war, 
That up the lake comes winding far ! 
To hero, bound for battle strife, 

Or bard of martial lay, 
'Twere worth ten years of peaceful life. 

One glance at their array ! 

Their light-armed archers far and near, 

Surveyed the tangled ground, 
Their center ranks, with pike and spear, 

A twilight forest frowned. 
Their barbed horsemen, in the rear. 

The stern battalia crowned. 
No cymbal clashed, no clarion rang. 

Still were the pipe and drum ; 
Save heavy tread, and armor's clang, 

The sullen march was dumb. 



PATRIOTS AND HEROES. 



269 



There breathed no wind their crests to shake, 

Or wave their flags abroad ; 
Scarce the frail aspen seemed to quake, 

That shadowed o'er their road ; 
Their vanward scouts no tidings bring, 

Can rouse no lurking foe. 
Nor spy a trace of living thing, 

Save when they stirred the roe ; 
The host moves like a deep sea-wave, 
Where ride no rocks, its pride to brave, 

High-swelling, dark and slow. 
The lake is passed, and now they gain 
A narrow and a broken plain, 
Before the Trosach's rugged jaws: 
And here, the horse and spearmen pause, 
While to explore a dangerous glen. 
Dive through the pass the archer-men. 

At once there ruse so wild a yell 
Witliin that dark and narrow dell. 
As all the fiends, from heaven that fell. 
Had pealed the banner-cry of hell ! 
Forth from the pass in tumult driven, 
Like chaff before the wind of heaven. 

The archery appear ; 
For life ! for life ! their flight they ply ; 
While shriek and shout and battle-cry, 
And plaids and bonnets waving high, 
And broadswords flashing to the sky, 

Are maddening in the rear. 

Onward they drive, in dreadful race, 

Pursuers and pursued ; 
Before that tide of flight and chase, 
How shall it keep its rooted place. 

The spearmen's twilight wood ? 
" Down ! down !" cried Mar, "your lances down ! 

Bear back both friend and foe ! 
Like reeds before the tempest's frown. 
That serried grove of lances brown 

At once lay leveled low ; 
And closely shouldering side to side, 
The bristling ranks the onset bide, 
" We'll quell the savage mountaineer 

As their Tinchell cows the game ! 
They come as fleet as mountain deer, 
We'll drive them back as tame," 
Bearing before them in their course 
The relics of the archer force. 
Like wave with crest of sparkling foam, 
Right onward did Clan Alinne come. 
Above their tide, each broadsword bright 
Was brandishing like gleam of light, 

Each targe was dark below ; 
And with the ocean's mighty swing, 
When heaving to the tempest's wing, 

They hurled them on the foe. 

I heard the lance's shivering crash, 
As when the whirlwind rends the ash ; 



F 



I heard the broadsword's deadly clang. 
As if a hundred anvils rang; 
But .Moray wheeled his rearward rank 
Of horsemen on Clan Alpine's flank, 
" My banner-man, advance ! 
I see," he cried, " their column shake; 
Now, gallants ! for your ladies' sake. 
Upon them with your lance!" 

The horsemen dashed among the rout 

As deer break through the broom ; 
Their steeds are stout, their swords are out, 

Thev soon make lightsome room. 
Clan Alpine's best are backward borne ; 

Where, where was Roderick then? 
One blast upon his bugle horn 

Were worth a thousand men. 
Ai d refluent through the pass of fear 

The battle's tide was poured; 
Vanished the .Saxon's struggling spear, 

Vanished the mountain's sword 
As Bracklin's chasm, so black and steep 

Receives her roaring lin ; 
As the dark caverns of the deep 

Suck the wild whirlpool in, 
So did the deep and darksome pass 
Devour the battle's mingled mass; 
None linger now upon the plain. 
Save those who ne'er shall fight again. 

Sir Walter Scott. 

FORGET NOT THE FIELD. 

ORGET not the field where they perished. 
The truest, the last of the brave. 
All gone — and the bright hopes we cher- 
ished. 
Gone with them, and quenched in their 
grave ! 



Oh ! could we from death but recover 
Those hearts as they bounded before. 

In the face of high Heaven to fight over 
That combat for freedom once more ; — 

Could the chain for an instant be riven 
Which tyranny flung round us then, 

No I 'tis not in man, nor in heaven. 
To let tyranny bind it again ! 

But 'tis past — and though blazoned in story 
The name of our victor may be. 

Accurst is the march of that glory 

Which treads o'er the hearts of the free. 

Far dearer the grave or the prison 

Illumed by one patriot name. 
Than the trophies of all who have risen 

On liberty's ruins to fame. 

Thomas Moore. 



270 



PATRIOTS AND HEROES. 



PAUL REVERE'S RIDE. 

Paul Revere, an American patriot of the Revolution, and 
one of the earhest American engravers, was born at Boston 
in 1735. He toolc an active part in the destruction of the tea 
in Boston harbor, and was conspicuous for his patriotism in 
the political movements of the time. His midnight expedi- 
tion to Concord to give notice of the intended attack of General 
Gage forms the subject of the following spirited poem : 




LISTEN, my children, and you shall hear 
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, 
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five: 
Hardly a man is now alive 
Who remembers that famous day and year. 

He said to his friend, — " If the British march 
By land or sea from the town to-night, 
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch 
Of the North-Church-tower, as a signal-light, — 
One if by land, and two if by sea; 



And I on the opposite shore will be, 
Ready to ride and spread the alarm 
Through every Middlesex village and farm 
For the country-folk to be up and to arm. ' ' 

Then he said good-night, and with muffled oar 

Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, 

Just as the moon rose over the bay, 

Where swinging wide at her moorings lay 

The Somersett, British man-of-war : 

A phantom ship, with each mast and spar 

Across the moon, like a prison-bar, 

And a huge, black hulk, that was magnified 

By its own reflection in the tide. 

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street 
Wanders and watches with eager ears. 
Till in the silence around him he hears 
The muster of men at the barrack-door. 
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet. 
And the measured tread of the grenadiers 
Marching down to their boats on the shore. 

Then he climbed to the tower of the church. 

Up the wooden stairs with stealthy tread, 

To the belfry-chamber overhead. 

And startled the pigeons from their perch 

On the sombre rafters, that round hitn made 

Masses and moving shapes of shade — 

Up the light ladder, slender and tall, 

To the highest window in the wall, 

Where he paused to listen and look down 

A moment on the roofs of the town, 

And the moonlight flowing over all. 

Beneath, in the churhyard, lay the dead 
In their night-encampment on the hill. 
Wrapped in silence so deep and still, 
That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread. 
The watchful night-wind as it went 
Creeping along from tent to tent, 
And seeming to whisper, " All is well !" 
A moment only he feels the spell 
Of the place and the hour, the secret dread 
Of the lonely belfry and the dead ; 
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent 
On a shadowy something far away, 
Where the river widens to meet the bay — 
A line of black, that bends and floats 
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. 

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride 
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride, 
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere ; 
Now he patted his horse's side, 
Now gazed on the landscape far and near. 
Then impetuous stamped the earth. 
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth ; 
But mostly he watched with eager search 
The belfry-tower of the old North Church, 
As it rose above the graves on the hill, 
Lonely, and spectral, and sombre, and still. 



PATRIOTS AND HEROES. 



271 



And lo ! as he looks, on the belfry's height, 
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light ! 
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns. 
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight 
A second lamp in the belfry burns ! 

A hurrying of hoofs in a village-street, 
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, 
And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark 
Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet : 
That was all ! And yet, through the gloom and 

the light, 
The fate of a nation was riding that night; 
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his 

flight, 
Kindled the land into flame with its heat. 

It was twelve by the village-clock, 

When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. 

He heard the crowing of the cock, 

And the barking of the farmer's dog, 

And felt the damp of the river-fog. 

That rises when the sun goes down. 

It was one by the village-clock. 

When he rode into Lexington. 

He saw the gilded weathercock 

Swim in the moonlight as he passed, 

And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, 

Gaze at him with a spectral glare. 

As if they already stood aghast 

At the bloody work they would look upon. 

It was two by the village-clock, 

When he came to the bridge in Concord town. 

He heard the bleating of the flock, 

And the twitter of birds among the trees. 

And felt the breath of the morning breeze 

Blowing over the meadows brown. 

And one was safe and asleep in his bed 

Who at the bridge would be first to fall. 

Who that day would be lying dead. 

Pierced by a British musket-ball. 

You know the rest. In the books you have read 
How the British regulars fired and fled — 
How the farmers gave them ball for ball, 
From behind each fence and farm-yard wall, 
Chasing the red-coats down the lane. 
Then crossing the fields to emerge again 
Under the trees at the turn of the road. 
And only pausing to fire and load. 

So through the night rode Paul Revere ; 

And so through the night went his cry of alarm 

To every Middlesex village and farm — 

A cry of defiance, and not of fear— - 

A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door. 

And a word that shall echo forevermore I 

For, borne on the night-wind of the past. 

Through all our history to the last. 

In the hour of darkness and peril and need, 



The people will waken and listen to hear 
The hurrying hoof-beat of that steed. 
And the midnight-message of Paul Revere. 

H. W. Lon(;fellow. 
A SONG OF THE NORTH. 

Captain Crozier, the second officer of Sir Jolin Franlilin's 
last ill-fated expedition, sailed willi Franklin in 1845, in 
search of a Northwest passage, after which nothing was 
heard of the party until 1859, when Captain McClintock 
found on King William's Island a record, dated April 25, 
1S48, signed by Captain Crozier, stating that the ships 
Erebus and Terror had been abandoned and that the crews, 
under command of Crozier, were about to start for Great 
Fish River. Fitz James was one of the officers in command. 
All of the expedition perished in the snows of the North, 
after leaving relics which were discovered by subsequent ex- 
peditions. 

u 



A' 



WAY ! away I " cried the stout Sir John, 
" While the blossoms are on the trees ; 
For the summer is short and the time 
speeds on, 
As we sail for the northern seas. 
Ho ! gallant Crozier and brave Fitz James ! 

We will start the world I trow. 
When we find a way to the Northern seas 

That never was found till now ! 
A good stout ship is the Erebus 

As ever unfurled a sail. 
And the Terror will match with as brave a one. 
As ever outrode a gale." 

So they bid farewell to their pleasant homes. 

To the hills and valleys green, . 

With three hearty cheers for their native isle,- 

And three for the English queen. 
They sped them away beyond cape and bay, 

Where the day and night are one — 
Where the hissing light in the heavens grew 
bright 

And flamed like a midnight sun. 

There was nought below save the fields of snow. 

That stretched to the icy pole ; 
And the Esquimaux in his strange canoe, 

Was the only living soul ! 
Along the coast like a giant host, 

The glittering icebergs frowned ; 
Or they met on the main like a battle plain. 

And crashed with a fearful sound ! 
The seal and the bear, with a curious stare. 

Looked down from the frozen heights, 
And the stars in the skies with their great wild 
eyes, 

Peered out from the Northern lights. 
The gallant Crozier and the brave Fitz James, 

And even the stout Sir John, 
Felt a doubt like a chill through their warm 
hearts thrill 

As they urged the good ships on. 

They s]ied them away, beyond cape and bay. 
Where even the tear-drops freeze ; 



272 



PATRIOTS AND HEROES. 



But no way was found by strait or sound, 

To sail through the Northern seas ; 
They sped them away, beyond cape and bay. 

And they sought but they sought in vain ! 
But no way was found, through the ice around 

To return to their homes again. 
But the wild waves rose, and the waters froze 

Till they closed like a prison wall ; 
And the icebergs stood, in the silent flood 

Like jailers grim and tall. 
O God, O God ! — it was hard to die 

In that prison-house of ice ! 
For what was fame, or a mighty name. 

When life was the fearful price. 

The gallant Crozier and the brave Fitz James, 

And even the stout Sir John, 
Had a secret dread, and the hopes all fled, 

As the weeks and months passed on. 



D 




Then llic Ilc Kmy came, Willi his eyes of flame, 

And looked on the fated crew ; 
His chilling breath was as cold as death, 

And it pierced their warm hearts through. 
A heavy sleep that was dark and deep. 

Came over their weary eyes. 
And they dreamed strange dreams of the hills 
and streams. 

And the blue of their native skies. 

Tlie Christmas chimes of the good old times 

Were heard in each dying ear. 
And the darling feet and the voices sweet 

Of their wives and children dear ! 
But it faded away — away — auay ! 

Like a sound on a distant shore ; 



And deeper and deeper came the sleep, 
Till they slept to wake no more ! 

Oh, the sailor's wife and the sailor's child ! 

'I'hey weep and watch and pray ; 
And the Lady Jane, she will hope in vain 

As the long years pass away ! 
The gallant Crozier and the brave Fitz James, 

And the good Sir John have found 
An open way to a quiet bay. 

And a port where all are bound. 
Let the waters roar round the ice-bound shore 

That circles the frozen pole. 
But there is no sleep and no grave so deep 

That can hold the human Soul. 

Eliz.\beth Doten. 

THE "CONSTITUTION" AND "QUER- 
RIERE. " 

URING the War of 1812 a British squadron 
sailed from Halifax to cruise off the port 
The American frigate 
" Constitution," Cap- 
tain Hull, while endea- 
voring to enter New 
York harbor, fell in 
with this squadron, and 
was chased by it for four 
days. Her escape was 
due entirely to the supe- 
rior skill of her officers 
and the energy of her 
crew. The chase was 
one of the most remark- 
able in history, and the 
escape of the American 
frigate won great credit 
for Captain Hull. Fail- 
ing to reach New York, 
Hull sailed for Boston, 
and reached that port in 
safety. Remaining there 
a few days, he put to sea 
again, just in time to 
avoid orders from Wash- 
ington to remain in port, 
the ■• Constitution '' sailed from Boston to the 
northeast. On the 19th of .\ugust, while cruising 
off the mouth of the St. Lawrence, i?he fell in with 
the British frigate "Guerriere," Cajitain Dacres, 
one of the vessels that had ciiased her during the 
previous month. The " Guerriere " immediately 
stood towards her, and both vessels prepared for 
action. The English commander opened his fire 
at long range, but Captain Hull refused to reply 
until he had gotten his ship into a favorable posi- 
tion, and for an hour and a half he manoeuvred in 
silence, under a heavy fire from the British frigate. 
At length, having gotten within pistol shot of 
her adversary, the " Constitution" opened a ter- 
rible fire upon her, and poured in her broadsides 



PATRIOTS AND HEROES. 



273 



with such effect that the " Guerriere " struck her 
colors within thirty minutes. The "Guerriere" 
lost seventy-nine men killed and wounded, while 
the loss of the " Constitution was but seven men. 
The " Guerriere" was so much injured in the fight 
that siie could not be brought into port, and Hull 
had her burned. 

The "Constitution" then returned to Boston 
with her prisoners, and was received with an ovation. 
It was the first time in half a century that a British 
frigate had struck her flag in a fair fight, and the 
victory was hailed with delight in all parts of the 
country. 

THE SHIP OF STATE. 

THE Ship of State — above her skies are blue, 
But still she rocks a little, it is true. 
And there are passengers whose faces white 
Show they don't feel as happy as they might. 
Yet, on the whole, her crew are quite content, 
Since its wild fury the typhoon has spent; 
And willing, if her pilot thinks it best, 
To head a little nearer south by west. 
And this they feel, the ship came too near wreck 
In the long quarrel for the quarter deck. 

Now, when she glides serenely on her way. 
The shallows past, where dread explosives lay. 
The stiff obstructives' churlish game to try, 
Let sleeping dogs and still torpedoes lie. 
And so I give you all " The Ship of State ! 
Freedom's last venture is her priceless freight. 
God speed her, keep her, bless her while she steers 
Amid the breakers of unsounded years. 
Lead her through danger's path with even keel 
And guide the honest hand that holds her wheel." 

O. W. Holmes. 

THE IMMORTALS. 

PATRIOTS have toiled, and in their country's 
cause. 
Bled nobly, and their deeds, as they de- 
serve, 
Receive proud recompense. We give in charge 
Their names to the sweet lyre. The historic Muse, 
Proud of her treasure, marches with it down 
To latest times: and Sculpture in her turn 
Gives bond, in stone and ever-during brass, 
To guard them, and immortalize her trust. 



w 



THE BALLOT BOX. 

E have a weapon, firmer set. 

And better than the bayonet ; 
A weapon which comes down as still 
As snow-flakes fall upon the sod, 
But executes a freeman's will 

As lightning does the will of God. 
Naught from its force, or bolt, or knocks 
Can shield them — 'tis the Ballot Box. 

John Pierpont. 

18 




PATRIOTISM. 

EREFT of patriotism, the heart of 
a nation will be cold and cramped 
and sordid; the arts will have no 
enduring impulse, and commerce 
no invigorating soul ; society will 
degenerate, and the mean and vi- 
cious triumph. Patriotism is not 
a wild and glittering passion, but a 
glorious reality. The virtue that 
gave to paganism its dazzling lus- 
tre, to barbarism its redeeming trait, to Chris- 
tianity its heroic form, is not dead. It still lives 
to console, to sanctify humanity. In every clime 
it has its altar, its worship and festivities. 

On the heathered hill of Scotland the sword of 
Wallace is yet a bright tradition. The genius of 
France, in the brilliant literature of the day, pays 
its high homage to the piety and heroism of the 
young Maid of Orleans. In her new Senate-hall, 
England bids her sculptor place, among the effigies 
of her greatest sons, the images of Hampden and 
of Russell. In the gay and graceful capital of 
Belgium, the daring hand of Geefs has reared a 
monument, full of glorious meaning, to the three 
hundred martyrs of the revolution. 

By the soft, blue waters of Lake Lucerne stands 
the chapel of William Tell. On the anniversary 
of his revolt and victory, across those waters, as 
they glitter in the July sun, skim the light boats 
of the allied cantons. From the prows hang the 
banners of the republic, and, as they near the 
sacred spot, the daughters of Lucerne chant the 
hymns of their old poetic land. Then bursts forth 
the glad Te Detim, and heaven again hears the 
voice of that wild chivalry of the mountains which, 
five centuries since, pierced the white eagle of 
Vienna, and flung it bleeding on the rocks of Uri. 
At Innspruck, in the black aisle of the old 
cathedral, the peasant of the Tyrol kneels before 
the statue of Andreas Hofer. In the defiles and 
valleys of the Tyrol, who forgets the day on which 
he fell within the walls of Mantua ? It is a festive 
day all through this quiet, noble land. In that 
old cathedral his inspiring memory is recalled 
amid the pageantries of the altar ; his image ap- 
pears in every house ; his victories and virtues are 
proclaimed in the songs of the people: and when 
the sun goes down a chain of fires, in the deep red 
light of which the eagle spreads his wings and 
holds his giddy revelry, proclaims the glory of the 
chief whose blood has made his native land a 
sainted spot in Europe. Shall not all join in this 
glorious worship ? Shall not all have the faith, the 
duties, the festivities of patriotism? Happy is the 
country whose sons and daughters love her sacred 
soil, and are ready to consecrate it to freedom with 

their blood. ^ „ ., 

T. F. Meagher. 



274 



PATRIOTS AND HEROES. 




THE PRIDE OF BATTERY B. 

OUTH Mountain towered upon our right, far off the river lay, 
And over on the wooded height we held their lines at bay. 
At last the muttering guns were still, the day died slow and 

wan ; 
At last the gunners' pipes did fill, the sergeant's yarns be- 
gan ; ^ 
When, as the wind a moment blew aside the fragrant flood 
Our brierwoods raised, within our view a little maiden stood ; 
A tiny tot of six or seven, from fireside fresh she seemed, 
(Of such a little one in heaven one soldier often dreamed). 



And as we started, one little hand went to her 

curly head 
In grave salute. "And who are you? " at length 

the sergeant said. 
"And where's your home?" he growled again. 

She lisped out, "Who is me? 
Why, don't you know? I'm little Jane, the pride 

of Battery B. 
My home ? ^Vhy that was burned a^vay, and pa 

and ma are dead, 
And so I ride the guns all day along with Sergeant 

Ned. 
And I've a drum that's not a toy, a cap with 

feathers too, 
And I march beside the drummer boy on Sundays 

at review. 
But now our 'bacca's all give out, the men can't 

have their smoke. 
And so they're cross; why even Ned won't play 

with me and joke. 
And the big colonel said to-day — I hate to hear 

him swear — 
He'd give a leg for a good pipe like the Yanks had 

over there. 
And so I thought when beat the drum, and the big 

guns were still, 
I'd creep beneath the tent and come out here 

across the hill, 
And beg, good Mister Yankee men, you'd give me 

some Lone Jack; 
Please do! When we get some again I'll surely 

bring it back. 



Indeed I will, for Ned, say he, if I do what I say,. 
I'll be a general yet, maybe, and ride a prancing 
bay." 

We brimmed her tiny apron o'er. You should 

have heard her laugh. 
As each man from his scanty store shook out a 

generous half 
To kiss the little mouth stooped down a score of 

grimy men. 
Until the sergeant's husky voice said, " 'Tention, 

squad ! ' ' and then 
We gave her escort, till good-night the pretty 

waif we bid, 
And watched her toddle out of sight — or else 

'twas tears that hid 
Her tiny form — nor turned about a man, nor spoke 

a word, 
Till after awhile, a far hoarse shout upon the wind 

we heard. 

We sent it back, and cast sad eyes upon the scene 

around, 
A baby's hand had touched the tie that brothers, 

once had bound. 
That's all ; save when the dawn awoke again the 

work of hell. 
And through the sullen clouds of smoke the 

screaming missiles fell. 
Our general often rubbed his glass and marveled 

much to see 
Not a single shell that whole day fell in the camp 

of Battery B. F. H. GASS.-iWAV. 



HARMODIUS AND ARISTOQITON. 

FROM THE GREEK. 



Harmodius was a young Athenian, wlio, with his friend 
Aristogiton, acquired celebrity by a conspiracy against Hip- 
pias and Hipparchus, who held the chief power in Athens 
about 525 B. C. Harmodius having received a personal 
affront from Hipparchus. the two friends conspired to revenge 
this by the death of both the brothers. They first attacked 
and killed Hipparchus, whose guards then slew Harmodius 
and arrested Aristogiton, who was afterwards put to death by 
the order of Hippias. The latter having become tyrannical 
and unpopular was expelled from the state about three years 
after that event. Statues were erected at the public expense 
to the memory of the conspirators, who were regarded as 
heroes and martyrs of liberty. It is said that when the tyrant 
Dionysius asked Antipho which was the finest kind of brass, 



he replied, "That of which the statues of Harmodius and 
Aristogiton are formed." 



I 



'LL wreathe my sword in myrtle bough, 
The sword that laid the tyrant low. 
When patriots, burning to be free. 
To Athens gave equality. 

Harmodius, hail ! though reft of breath, 
Thou ne'er shall feel the stroke of death; 
The heroes' happy isles shall be 
The bright abode allotted thee. 



PATRIOTS AND HEROES. 



275 



I'll wreathe my sword in myrtle bough. 
The sword that laid Hipparchus low, 
When at Athena's adverse fane 
He knelt, and never rose again. 

While freedom's name is understood, 
You shall delight the wise and good ; 
You dared to set your country free. 
And gave her laws equality. 

Lord Denman. 



His loss was deeply and universally lamented. 
His memory is cherished with even warmer regard 
than that of some others, who, from the greater 
length of their career and the wider sphere in 
which they acted, may be supposed to have ren- 
dered more important services to the country. 
He was born at Roxbury, Mass., in 1741, and 
graduated at Harvard College in 1759. He pos- 
sessed in high perfection the gift of eloquence. 




WARREN AND BUNKER HILL. 

GENERAL JOSEPH WARREN was one of 
the most distinguished patriots of the 
American Revolution. He opposed the 
])lan of fortifying the heights of Charlestown, but 
the majority of the council of war decided against 
him, and thus brought on the battle of Bunker 
Hill before the Americans were fully prepared for 
it. While both the armies were awaiting the 
signal for action on the 17th of June, 1775, Gen- 
eral Warren joined the ranks as a volunteer, and 
declined to take the command of the army which 
was offered to him by General Putnam. He was 
about to retire from the redoubt, after the ammu- 
nition of the Americans had been exhausted, 
when he was shot in the forehead and instantly 
killed. 



ANDREAS HOFER. 

Hofer was a celebrated Tyrolese patriot. With his army 
of peasants he signally defeated the French commander after 
a long and obstinate conflict, but, overpowered at last by the 
reinforcements sent from France, he took refuge in the moun- 
tains. Being soon after betrayed by a former friend, he was 
tried and shot, February, iSio. At the place of execution 
he said " he stood before Him who created bini; and stand- 
ing he would yield up his spirit to Him." A coin which had 
been issued during his administration, he delivered to the 
corporal, with the charge to bear witness, that in his last 
hour, he felt himself bound by every tie of constancy to his 
poor father-land. Then he cried " Fire !" 

I WILL not kneel to yield my life ; 
Behold me firmly stand, 
As oft I've stood in deadly strife 
For my dear father-land ; 



276 



PATRIOTS AND HEROES. 



The cause for which I long have bled, 

I cherish to the last — 
God's blessing be upon it shed 

When my vain life is past ! 

On nature's ramparts was I born, 
And o'er them walked elate, 

My retinue the hues of dawn, 
The mists my robe of state ; 

I will not shame my mountain-birth, 
Slaves only crouch to die, 

Erect I'll take my leave of earth, 
With clear and dauntless eye. 

Thoughts of the eagle's lofty home. 

Of stars that ever shine. 
The torrent's crested arch of foam. 

The darkly waving pine. 
The dizzy crag, eternal snow, 

Echoes that wildly roll — 
With valor make my bosom glow. 

And wing my parting soul. 

This coin will make my country's tears, 

Fresh cast in freedom s mould, 
'Tis dearer to my brave compeers 

Than all your despot's gold ; 
O, let it bear the last farewell 

Of one free mountaineer. 
And bid the Tyrol peasants swell 

Their songs of martial cheer ! 

I've met ye on a fairer field, 

And seen ye tamely bow. 
Think not with suppliant knee I'll yield 

To craven vengeance now ; 
Cut short my few and toilsome days. 

Set loose a tyrant's thrall, 
I'll die with unaverted gaze. 

And conquer as I fall. 

H. T. TUCKERMAN. 

LEXINGTON. 

SLOWLY the mist o'er the meadow was creep- 
ing, 
Bright on the dewy buds glistened the sun, 
When from his couch, while his children 
were sleeping, 
Rose the bold rebel and shouldered his gun. 
Waving her golden veil 
Over the silent dale, 
Blithe looked the morning on cottage and spire, 
Hushed was his parting sigh, 
While from his noble eye 
Flashed the last sparkle of liberty's fire. 

On the smooth green where the fresh leaf is spring- 
ing 
Calmly the first-born of glory have met ; 
I lush ! the death-volley around them is ringing ! 
Look ! with their life-blood the young grass is 
wet ! 



Faint is the feeble breath, 

Murmuring low in death, 
"Tell to our sons how their fathers have died;" 

Nerveless the iron hand. 

Raised for its native land, 
Lies by the weapon that gleams at its side. 

Over the hillsides the wild knell is tolling. 

From their fair hamlets the yeomanry come ; 
As through the storm-clouds the thunder-burst 
rolling, 
Circles the beat of the mustering drum. 
Fast on the soldier's path 
Darkens the waves of wrath. 
Long have they gathered, and loud shall they fall. 
Red glares the musket's flash. 
Sharp rings the rifle's crash. 
Blazing and clanging from thicket and wall. 

Snow-girdled crags where the hoarse wind is rav- 
ing. 
Rocks where the weary floods murmur and wail. 
Wilds where the fern by the furrow is waving, 
Reeled with the echoes that rode on the gale; 
Far as the tempest thrills. 
Over the darkened hills. 
Far as the sunshine streams over the plain, 
Roused by the tyrant band, 
Woke all the mighty land. 
Girded for battle from mountain to main. 

Green be the graves where her martyrs are lying ! 
Shroudless and tombless they sank to their rest, 
While o'er their ashes the starry fold flying, 
Wraps the proud eagle they roused from his nest. 
Borne on her Northern pine, 
Long o'er the foamy brine. 
Spread her broad banner to storm and to sun ! 
Heaven keep her ever free. 
Wide as o'er land and sea 
Floats the fair emblem her heroes have won ! 

O. W. Holmes. 

THE SWORD OF BUNKER HILL. 

HE lay upon his dying bed, 
His eyes were growing dim 
When with a feeble voice he called 
His weeping son to him. 
" Weep not, my boy," the veteran said 

" I bow to heaven's high will, 
But quickly from yon antlers bring 
The Sword of Bunker Hill." 

The sword was brought ; the soldier's eyes 

Lit with a sudden flame, 
And as he grasped the ancient blade. 

He murmured Warren's name. 
Then said : " My boy, I leave you gold. 

But what is better still. 
I leave you, mark me, mark me now. 

The Sword of Bunker Hill. 



PATRIOTS AND HEROES. 



277 



" 'Twas on that dread immortal day 

We dared the British band, 
A captain raised this sword on me, 

I tore it from his hand. 
And as the awful battle raged, 

It lighted freedom's will ! 
For, boy, the God of freedom blessed 

The Sword of Bunker Hill. 

" O keep the sword " — his accents broke ; 

A smile, and he was dead — 
But his wrinkled hands still grasped the blade 

Upon that dying bed. 
The son remains, the sword remains, 

Its glory growing still. 
And many millions bless the sire 

And Sword of Bunker Hill. 

THE WOUNDED SOLDIER. 

STEADY, boys, steady! Keep your arms 
ready, 
God only knows whom we may meet here. 
Don't let me be taken ; I'd rather awaken 
To-morrow, in — no matter where, 
Than to lie in that foul prison-hole, over there. 
Step slowly I Speak lowly ! The rocks may have 

hfe! 
Lay me down in the hollow ; we are out of the 

strife. 
By heaven ! the foeman may track me in blood, 
For this hole in my breast is outpouring a flood. 
No ! No surgeon for me ; he can give me no aid; 
The surgeon I want is a pick-axe and spade. 
What, Morris, a tear? Why, shame on you, man! 
I thought you a hero ; but since you began 
To whimper and cry, like a girl in her teens, 
By George ! 1 don't know what the devil it means. 

Well I well ! I am rough, 'tis a very rough school' 
This life of a trooper — but yet I'm no fool ! 
I know a brave man, and a friend from a foe; 
And, boys, that you love me I cartainly know, 

But wasn't it grand. 
When they came down the hill over sloughing and 

sand? 
But we stood — did we not? — like immovable rock. 
Unheeding their balls and repelling their shock. 
Did you mind the loud cry, when, as turning to fly. 
Our men sprang upon them, determined to die ? 

Oh, wasn't it grand? 
God help the poor wretches who fell in the fight ; 
No time was there given for prayers or for flight. 
They fell by the score, in the crash, hand to hand. 
And they mingled their blood with the sloughing 

and sand. 

Great heavens ! This bullet-hole gaps like a 

grave ; 
.\ curse on the aim of the traitorous knave ! 
Is there never a one of you knows how to pray, 



Or speak for a man as his life ebbs away ? 
Pray 1 Pray ! 

Our Father! Our Father! — why don't you pro- 
ceed? 

Can't you see I am dying? Great God, how I 
bleed I 

Our Father in heaven — boys, tell me the rest. 

While I stanch the hot blood from the hole in my 
breast. 

There's something about the forgiveness of sin; 

Put that in ! put that in ! — and then 

I'll follow your words and say an "Amen." 

Here, Morris, old fellow, get hold of niy hand, 
And Wilson, my comrade — oh 1 wasn't it grand 
When they came down the hill like a thunder- 
charged cloud, 
And were scattered like mist by our brave little 

crowd ? — 
Where's Wilson, my comrade? Here stoop down 

your head. 
Can't you say a short prayer for the dying and 
dead? 

"Christ-God, who died for sinners all, 

Hear Thou this suppliant wanderer's cry; 
Let not e'en this poor sparrow fall 

Unheeded by Thy gracious eye ; 
Throw wide Thy gates to let him in. 

And take him, pleading, to Thine arms; 
Forgive, O Lord, his lifelong sin. 

And quiet all his fierce alarms." 

God bless you, my comrade, for singing that hymn. 
It is light to my path, now my sight has grown 

dim. 
I am dying! Bend down, till I touch you once 

more ; 
Don't forget me, old fellow — God prosper this 

war ! 
Confusion to enemies ! — keep hold of my hand — 
And float our dear flag o'er a prosperous land ! 

J. W. Watson. 

THE OLD QRENADIER'5 STORY. 

WAS the day beside the Pyramids, 
It seems but an hour ago. 
That Kleber's Foot stood firm in squares, 
Returning blow for blow. 
The Mamelukes were tossing 
Their standards to the sky, 
When I heard a child's voice say, "My men, 
Teach me the way to die ! ' ' 

'Twas a little drummer, with his side 

Torn terribly with shot ; 
But still he feebly beat his drum. 

As though the wound were not. 
And when the Mameluke's wild horse 

Burst with a scream and cry, 
He said, " O men of the Forty-third, 

Teach me the way to die ! " 



T 



278 



PATRIOTS AND HEROES. 



" My mother has got other sons, 

With stouter hearts than mine, 
But none more ready blood for France 

To pour out free as wine. 
Yet still life's sweet," the brave lad moaned, 

"Fair are this earth and sky ; 
Then, comrades of the Forty-third, 

Teach me the way to die ! ' ' 

I saw Salenche, of the granite heart, 

Wiping his burning eyes — 
It was by far more pitiful 

Than mere loud sobs and cries. 
One bit his cartridge till his lip 

Grew black as winter sky, 
But still the boy moaned, "Forty-third, 

Teach me the way to die ! " 

never saw I sight like that ! 
The sergeant flung down flag. 

Even the fifer bound his brow 

With a wet and bloody rag ; 
Then looked at locks, and fixed their steel, 

But never made reply, 
Until he sobbed out once again, 

" Teach me the way to die ? " 

Then, with a shout that flew to God, 
They strode into the fray ; 

1 saw their red plumes join and wave, 

But slowly melt away. 
The last who went — a wounded man — 

Bade the poor boy good-by, 
And said, "We men of the Forty-third 

Teach you the way to die ! " 



I never saw so sad a look 

As the poor youngster cast, 
When the hot smoke of cannon 

In cloud and whirlwind passed. 
Earth shook and heaven answered : 

I watched his eagle eye, 
As he faintly moaned, " The Forty-third 

Teach me the way to die! " 

Then, with a musket for a crutch, 

He limped unto the fight; 
I, with a bullet in my hip, 

Had neither strength nor might. 
But, proudly beating on his drum, 

A fever in his eye, 
I heard him moan, "The Forty-third 

Taught me the way to die ! ' ' 

They found him on the morrow. 

Stretched on a heap of dead ; 
His hand was in the grenadier's 

Who at his bidding bled. 
They hung a medal round his neck. 

And closed his dauntless eye ; 
On the stone they cut, " The Forty-third 

Taught him the way to die ! " 

'Tis forty years from then till now — 

The grave gapes at my feet — 
Yet, when I think of such a boy, 

I feel my old heart beat. 
And from my sleep I sometimes wake. 

Hearing a feeble cry, 
And a voice that says, " Now, Forty-third, 

Teach me the way to die ! " 

G. W. Thornbury. 



THE HOMES OF FREEDOM. 



I HAVE seen my countrymen, and have been 
with them a fellow-wanderer, in other lands; 
and little did I see or feel to warrant the appre- 
hension, sometimes expressed, that foreign travel 
would weaken our patriotic attachments. One sigh 
for home — home, arose from all hearts. And why, 
from palaces and courts — why, from galleries of the 
arts, where the marble softens into life, and paint- 
ing sheds an almost living presence of beauty 
around it— why, from the mountain's awful brow, 
and the lovely valleys and lakes touched with the 
sunset hues of old romance — why, from those vener- 
able and touching ruins to which our very heart 
grows — why, from all these scenes, were they look- 
ing beyond the swellings of the Atlantic wave, to 
a dearer and holier spot of earth — their own, own 
country? Doubtless it was, in part, because it is 
their country. 

But it was also, as every one's experience will 
testify, because they knew that f/it-re was no oppres- 
sion, no pitiful exaction of petty tyranny ; because 
that /here, they knew, was no accredited and irre- 



sistible religious domination ; because that there, 
they knew, they should not meet the odious soldier 
at every corner, nor swarms of imploring beggars, 
the victims of misrule ; that there, no curse cause- 
less did fall, and no blight, worse than plague and 
pestilence, did descend amidst the pure dews of 
heaven ; because, in fine, that there, they knew, 
was liberty — upon all the green hills, and amidst 
all the peaceful valleys — liberty, the wall of fire 
around the humblest home ; the crown of glory, 
studded with her ever-blazing stars upon the proud- 
est mansion ! 

My friends, upon our own homes that blessing 
rests, that guardian care and glorious crown ; and 
when we return to those homes, and so long as we 
dwell in them — so long as no oppressor's foot in- 
vades their thresholds, let us bless them, and hallow 
them as the homes of freedom ! Let us make them, 
too, the homes of a nobler freedom — of freedom 
from vice, from evil, from passion — from every 
corrupting bondage of the soul. 

Orville Dewey. 



THE SWORD AND THE PLOW: 

OR 

THE VICTORIES OF WAR AND OF PEACE. 




A DESERTER. 

ESERTER!" Well, Captain, the world's about right, 
And it's uncommon queer I should run from a fight. 
Or the chance of a fight ; I, raised in a land 
Where boys, you may say, are born rifle in hand. 
And who've fought all my life for the right of my ranch. 
With the wily Apache and the cruel Comanche. 

But it's true, and I'll own it, I did run away. 

" Drunk?" No, sir; I'd not tasted a drop all day; 

But — smile if you will — I'd a dream in the night, 

And I woke in a fever of sorrow and fright 

And went for my horse; 'twas up and away; 

And I rode like the wind, till the break of the day. 

" What was it I dreamt?' ' I dreamed of my wife — 
The true little woman that's better than life — 
I dreamt of my bo)S — I have three — one is ten. 
The youngest is four— all brave little men — 
Of my one baby girl, my pretty white dove, 
The star of my home, the rose of its love. 



I saw the log house on the clear San Antoine, 
And I knew that around it the grass had been 

mown. 
For I felt in my dream, the sweet breath of the 

hay, 
I was there, for I lifted a jessamine spray ; 
And the dog that I loved heard my whispered 

command, 
And whimpered and put his big head in my 

hand. 

The place was so still ; all the bo}S were at rest ; 
And the mother lay dreaming, the babe at her 

breast 
I saw the fair scene for a moment ; then stood 
In a circle of flame, amid shrieking and blood. 
The Comanche had the place— Captain, spare nie 

the rest ; 
You know what that means, for you come from 

the West. 

I woke with a shout, and I had but one aim — - 
To save or revenge them — my head was aflame, 
And my heart had stood still ; I was mad, I dare 

say, 
For my horse fell dead at the dawn of the day ; 



Then I knew what I'd done, and with heart- 
broken breath. 

When the boys found me out I was praying for 
death. 

"A pardon?" No, Captain, I did run away. 
And the wrong to the flag it is right I should 

pay 
With my life. It's not hard to be brave 
When one's children and wife have gone to the 

grave. 
Boys, take a good aim ! When I turn to the 

west 
Put a ball through my heart ; it's kindest and best. 

He lifted his hat to the flag — bent his head 

And the prayer of his childhood solemnly said — 

Shouted, "Comrades, adieu!" — spread his arms 

to the west — 
And a rifle ball instantly granted him rest, 
But o'er that sad grave by the Mexican sea. 
Wives and mothers have planted a blossoming 

tree, 
And maidens bring roses, and tenderly say : 
" It was love — sweetest love — led the soldier 

away. ' ' Mary A. Barr. 

279 



280 



THE SWORD AND THE PLOW. 



SONG OF THE GREEK AMAZON. 

I BUCKLE to my slender side 
The pistol and the scimitar, 
And in my maiden flower and pride 
Am come to share the tasks of war. 
And yonder stands my fiery steed, 

That paws the ground and neighs to go, 
My charger of the Arab breed — 
I took him from the routed foe. 

My mirror is the mountain spring, 

At which I dress my ruffled hair ; 
My dimmed and dusty arms I bring. 

And wash away the blood-stain there. 
Why should I guard from wind and sun 

This cheek, whose virgin rose is fled? 
It was for one — oh, only one — 

I kept its bloom, and he is dead. 

But they who slew him — unaware 

Of coward murderers lurking nigh — 
And left him to the fowls of air. 

Are yet alive — and they must die. 
They slew him and my virgin years 

Are vowed to Greece and vengeance now, 
And many an Othman dame, in tears. 

Shall rule the Grecian maiden's vow. 

I touched the lute in the better days, 

I led in dance the joyous band ; 
Ah ! they may move to mirthful lays 

Whose hands can touch a lover's hand. 
The march of hosts that haste to meet 

Seems gayer than the dance to me ; 
The lute's sweet tones are not so sweet 

As the fierce shout of victory. 

W. C. Bryant. 

THE SOLDIER'S WIDOW. 



w 



O for my vine-clad home ! 

That it should ever be so dark to 
me. 
With its bright threshold, and its whispering tree! 

That I should ever come, 
Fearing the lonely echo of a tread 
Beneath the roof-tree of my glorious dead ! 

Lead on, my orphan boy ! 
Thy home is not so desolate to thee — 
And the low shiver in the linden tree 

May bring to thee a joy ; 
But oh, how dark is the bright home before thee. 
To her who with a joyous spirit bore thee ! 

Ixad on ! for thou art now 
My sole remaining helper. God hath spoken, 
And the strong heart I leaned upon is broken; 

And I have seen his brow — 
The forehead of my upright one, and just — 
Trod by the hoof of battle in the dust. 



He will not meet thee there 
Who blest thee at the eventide, m) son \ 
And when the shadows of the night steal on, 

Ke will not call to prayer. 
The lips that melted, giving thee to God, 
Are in the icy keeping of the sod ! 

Ay, my own boy ! thy sire 
Is with the sleepers of the valley cast, 
And the proud glory of my life hath passed 

With his high glance of fire. 
Wo that the linden and the vine should bloom, 
And a just man be gathered to the tomb ! 

Why- — bear them proudly, boy ! 
It is the sword he girded to his thigh — 
It is the helm lie wore in victory — 

And shall we have no joy ? 
For thy green vales, oh Switzerland, he died ! — 
I will forget my sorrow in my pride ! 

N. P. Willis. 



M 



HOME FROM THE WAR. 

ARCH ! nor heed those arms that hold thee. 
Though so fondly close they come; 
Closer still will they enfold thee. 

When thou bring'st fresh laurels home. 
Dost thou dote on woman's brow? 

Dost thou live but in her breath ? 
March ! — one hour of victory now 
Wins thee woman's smile till death. 

Oh, what bliss, when war is over, 

Beauty's long-missed smile to meet, 
And, when wreaths our temples cover, 

Lay them shining at her feet! 
Wlio would not, that hour to reach. 

Breathe out life's expiring sigh — 
Proud as waves that on the beach 

Lay their war-crests down, and die? 

There ! I see thy soul is burning ; 

She herself, who clasps thee so. 
Paints, ev'n now, thy glad returning. 

And, while clasping, bids thee go. 
One deep sigh, to passion given. 

One last glowing tear, and then — 
March! — nor rest thy sword, till Heaven 

Brings thee to those arms again. 

Thomas Moore. 

THE GOLDEN AGE. 

FOR lo ! the days are hastening on; 
By prophet bards foretold. 
When, with the ever circling years, 
Comes round the ace of gold ! 
When peace shall over all the earth 
Its final splendors fling, 
And the whole world send back the song 
Which now the angels sing ! 




281 



282 



THE SWORD AND THE PLOW. 



THE SWORD. 

OVER the mantel hangs the sword, 
Sheathed in scabbard, dented and old ; 
Red scarf, tasseled and faded there, 
Clings to the hilt, never a word. 
All the battles are left untold — 

Fighting and blood, or when and where. 
The sword speaks not ; the sword is great ; 
Silence is gold when acts are fate. 

Blood, did you say? Ay, death on death ! 
Who knows ? Where is the wearer now — 
He whose right arm wielded it then ? 
Dust, with the host that breathed the breath 
Of the battle years, when the nation's vow 
Freedomed the lives of a million men. 
Silent? Ah, yes ! The man who led 
With horse and yonder sword, is dead. 

Who can tell of its flashing blade? 
Who confess the valor it taught? 

Where are the ranks that followed its lead? 
Where are the fields of carnage laid ? 
Where the hearts that back of it fought? 
On what page is written their meed? 
Silent the men and their battle-cry. 
They who challenged their fate — to die ! 

Powerless now on the panelled wall — 

Nevertheless — smitten like its master's hand ; 
Flash gone out of its tempered steel 
Since it lay on its master's pall ; 

Bound no more by the red scarf band 
Near the heart that it once could feel ; 
Never again to mix in the din 
Or in the van to lose or to win ! 

Peace is carved on the rusty sword, 
Peace is wrought in the silent stone. 
Memory crowned by love's true art; 
Battle and victory speak no word ; 
Sword art thou of the spirit of one 

Whom death enshrines in the reverent heart; 
Love and honor gleam from thy blade — 
Battle and victory fade and fade ! 

Stephen H. Thayer. 

LOVE AND PEACE. 

THERE is a story told 
In Eastern tents, when autumn nights grow 
cold, 
And round the fire the Mongol shepherds sit 
With grave responses listening unto it : 
Once, on the errands of his mercy bent, 
Buddha, the holy and benevolent, 
Met a fell monster, huge and fierce of look. 
Whose awful voice the hills and forests shook. 
" O son of peace ! " the giant cried, " thy fate 
Is sealed at last, and love shall yield to hate." 
The unarmed Buddha looking, with no trace 
Of fear or anger, in the monster's face. 
With pity said : "Poor fiend, even thee I love." 



Lo ! as he spake, the sky-tall terror sank 
To handbreadth size ; the huge abhorrence shrank 
Into the form and fashion of a dove ; 
And where the thunder of its rage was heard, 
Brooding above him sweetly sang the bird : 
" Hate hath no harm for love," so ran the song, 
" And peace unweaponed conquers every wrong ! " 

J. G. Whittier. 

THE RAVAGES OF WAR. 

I NEED not dwell now on the waste and cruelty 
of war. These stare us wildly in the face, 
like lurid meteor lights, as we travel the page 
of history. We see the desolation and death that 
pursue its demoniac footsteps. We look upon 
sacked towns, upon ravaged territories, upon vio- 
lated homes ; we behold all the sweets charities of 
life changed to wormwood and gall. Our soul 
is penetrated by the sharp moan of mothers, sis- 
ters and daughters — of fathers, brothers and sons, 
who, in the bitterness of their bereavement, refuse 
to be comforted. Our e\ es rest at last upon one 
of those fair fields, where nature in her abundance 
spreads her cloth of gold, spacious and apt, for 
the entertainment of mighty multitudes ; or, per- 
haps, from the curious subtlety of its position, like 
the car];et in the Arabian tale, seeming to contract 
so as to be covered by a few only, or to dilate so 
as to receive an innumerable host. 

Here, under a bright sun, such as shone at Aus- 
terlitz or Buena Vista— amidst the peaceful har- 
monies of nature — on the Sabbath of peace— we 
behold bands of brothers, children of a common 
Father, heirs to a common happiness, struggling 
together in the deadly fight, with the madness of 
fallen spirits, seeking with murderous weapons the 
lives of brothers who have never injured them or 
their kindred. The havoc rages. The ground 
is soaked with their commingling blood. The air 
is rent by their commingling cries. Horse and 
rider are stretched together on the earth. 

More revolting than the mangled victims, than 
the gashed limbs, than the lifeless trunks, than the 
spattering brains, are the lawless passions which 
sweep, tempest-like, through the fiendish tumult. 

Nearer comes the storm, and nearer, rolling fast 
and frightful on. 

Speak, Ximena, speak and tell us, who has lost 
and who has won ? 

"Alas! alas! I know not; friend and foe to- 
gether fall. 

O'er the dying rush the living; pray, my sister, 
for them all! " 

Horror-struck, we asked, wherefore this hateful 
contest? The melancholy, but truthful answer 
comes, that this is the established method of deter- 
mining justice between nations! 

Charles Sumner. 



THE SWORD AND THE PLOW. 



283 



J"" I ""IS midnight: on the mountains brown 
I The cold round moon shines deeply down; 
*■ Blue roll the waters, blue the sky 
Spreads like an ocean hung on high, 
Liespangled with those isles of light, 
So wildly, spiritually bright ; 



THE TURKISH CAMP. 

BEFORE CORINTH. 

And echo answered from the hill, 



And the wide hum of that wild host 
Rustled like leaves from coast to coast. 
As rose the Muezzin's voice in air 
In midnight call to wonted praver ; 

It rose, that chanted mournful strain, 




Who ever gazed upon them shining, 
And turned to earth without repining. 
Nor wished for wings to flee away, 
And mix with their eternal ray ? 
The waves on either shore lay there. 
Calm, clear, and azure as the air : 
And scarce their foam the pebbles shook, 
But murmured meekly as the brook. 

The winds were pillowed on the waves ; 
The banners drooped along their staves. 
And. as they fell around them furling, 
Above them shone the crescent curling; 
And that deep silence was unbroke, 
Save where the watch his signal spoke. 
Save where the steed neighed oft and 
shrill, 



Like some lone spirit's o'er the plain: 

'Twas musical, but sadly sweet. 

Such as when winds and harp-strings meet, 

And take a long unmeasured tone. 

To mortal minstrelsy unknown. 

It seemed to those within the wall 
A cry prophetic of their fall ; 
It struck even the besieger's ear 
With something ominous and drear. 
An undefined and sudden thrill, 
Which makes the heart a moment still, 
Then beat with quicker pulse, ashamed 
Of that strange sense its silence framed; 
Such as a sudden passing-bell 
Wakes, though but for a stranger's knell. 

Lord Bvron. 



284 



THE SWORD AND THE PLOW. 



THE BATTLE-FIELD. 

This striking poem is an American classic. Two lines 
alone, if there were no others, are enough to give it immor- 
tal fame : 

" Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again; 
The eternal years of God are hers." 



o 



NCE this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, 
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, 

And fiery hearts and armed hands 
Encountered in the battle cloud. 



Ah ! never shall the land forget 

How gushed the life-blood of her brave, 

Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet, 
Upon the soil they fought to save. 

Now all is calm, and fresh, and still. 

Alone the chirp of flitting bird. 
And talk of children on the hill, 

And bell of wandering kine are heard. 

No solemn host goes trailing by 

The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain ; 
Men start not at the battle-cry, 

Oh, be it never heard again! 

Soon rested those who fought ; but thou 
W ho minglest in the harder strife 

For truths which men receive not now, 
Thy warfare only ends with life. 

A friendless warfare ! lingering long 
Through weary day and weary year. 

A wild and many-weaponed throng 

Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear. 

Yet nerve thy sjjirit to the proof. 
And blench not at thy chosen lot. 

The timid good may stand aloof, 

The sage may frown — yet faint thou not. 

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, 
The foul and hissing bolt of scorn ; 

For with thy side shall dwell, at last, 
The victory of endurance born. 

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again ; 

The eternal years of God are hers ; 
But Error, wounded, writhes with pain. 

And dies among his worshippers. 

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust. 

When they who helped thee flee in fear, 

Die full of hope and manly trust. 
Like those who fell in battle here. 

Another hand thy sword shall wield. 

Another hand the standard wave, 
Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed 

The blast of triumph o'er thy grave. 

W. C. Bryant. 



THE REGIMENT'S RETURN. 

HE is coming, he is coming, my true-love comes 
home to-day ; 
All the city throngs to meet him as he lin- 
gers by the way. 
He is coming from the battle, with his knapsack 

and his gun — 
He, a hundred times my darling, for the dangers 
he hath run. 

Twice they said that he was dead, but I would not 
believe the lie; 

While my faithful heart kept loving him I knew he 
could not die. 

All in white will I array me, with a rosebud in my 
hair, 

And his ring upon my finger — he shall see it shin- 
ing there. 

He will kiss me, he will kiss me with the kiss of 

long ago; 
He will fold his arms around me close, and I shall 

cry, I know. 
Oh the years that I have waited — rather lives they 

seemed to be — 
For the dawning of the happy day that brings him 

back to me. 
But the worthy cause has triumphed. Oh, joy ! 

the war is over. 
He is coming, he is coming, my gallant soldier 

lover. 

Men are shouting all around me, women weep and 
laugh for joy, 

Wives behold again their husbands, and the mother 
clasps her boy; 

All the city throbs with passion; 'tis a day of 
jubilee ; 

But the happiness of thoasands brings not happi- 
ness to me ; 

I remember, I remember, when the soldiers went 
away. 

There was one among the noblest who has not re- 
turned to-day. 

Oh, I loved him, how I loved him, and I never 

can forget 
That he kissed me as we parted, for the kiss is 

burning yet ! 
'Tis his picture in my bosom, where his head will 

never lie ; 
'Tis his ring upon my finger — I will wear it till I 

die. 
Oh, his comrades say that dying he looked up and 

breathed my name ; 
They have come to those that loved them but my 

darling never came. 
Oh, they said he died a hero — but I knew how 

that would be ; 
And they say the cause has triumphed — will that 

bring him back to me ? E. J. Cutler. 



THE SWORD AND THE PLOW. 



285 



WAR'S DESTRUCTION. 

CONCEIVE, but for a moment, the conster- 
nation which the approach of an invading 
army would impress on the peaceful vil- 
lages in our own neighborhood. When you have 
placed yourselves for an instant in that situation, 
you will learn to sympathize with those unhappy 
countries which have sustained the ravages of arms. 
Hut how is it possible to give you an idea of these 
horrors? 

Here you behold rich harvests, the bounty of 
heaven, and the reward of industry, consumed in 
a moment, or trampled under foot, while famine 
and pestilence follow the steps of desolation. 
There the cottages of peasants given up to the 
flames, mothers expiring through fear, not for 
themselves, but their infants; the inhabitants fly- 
iiig with their helpless babes in all directions, 
miserable fugitives on their native soil. 

In another part you witness opulent cities taken 
by storm ; the streets, where no sounds were heard 
but those of peaceful industry, filled on a sudden 
with slaughter and blood, resounding with the cries 
of the pursuing and the pursued; the palaces of 
nobles demolished ; the houses of the rich pillaged, 
and every age, sex and rank, mingled in promis- 
cuous massacre and ruin. 

Robert Hall. 

THE BATTLE-SONQ OF QUSTAVUS 
ADOLPHUS. 

FROM THE GERMAN. 

FEAR not, O little flock ! the foe 
Who madly seeks your overthrow, 
Dread not his rage and power ; 
What though your courage sometimes faints? 
His seeming triumph o'er God's saints 
Lasts but a little hour. 

Be of good cheer ; your cause belongs 
To him who can avenge your wrongs. 

Leave it to him, our Lord. 
Though hidden now from all our eyes, 
He sees the Gideon who shall rise 

To save us, and his word. 

As true as God's own word is true, 
Not earth or hell with all their crew 

Against us shall prevail. 
A jest and by-word are they grown ; 
God is with us, we are his own, 

Our victory cannot fail. 

.Vmen, Lord Jesus, grant our prayer ; 
Great Captain, now thine arm make bare; 

Fight for us once again. 
So shall the saints and martys raise 
A mighty chorus to thy praise. 

World without end. Amen. 

Michael Altenburg. 



OLD IRONSIDES. 

The frigate "Constitution,"' wliose glorious record is 
known to all familiar with our naval histoiy, was saved from 
destruction by the following beautiful lines of Dr. Holmes, 
which caused the ])eople to pause, and reconsider their deter- 
mination of breaking up the nation's favorite. 

AY, tear her tattered ensign down ! 
Long has it waved on high. 
And many an eye has danced to see 
That banner in the sky; 
Beneath it rung the battle shout 

And burst the cannon's roar: 
The meteor of the ocean air 
Shall sweep the clouds no more. 

Her deck, once red with hero's blood. 

Where knelt the vanquished foe, 
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood 

And waves were white below. 
No more shall feel the victor's tread, 

Or know the conquered knee : 
The harpies of the shore shall pluck 

The eagle of the sea. 

Oh, better that her shattered hulk 

Should sink beneath the wave — 
Her thunders shook the mighty deep, 

And there should be her grave. 
Nail to the mast her holy flag, 

Set every threadbare sail, 
And give her to the god of storms, 

The lightning, and the gale. 

O. W. Holmes. 
FESTIVE PEACE. 

NOW are our brows bound with victorious 
wreaths ; 
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments ; 
Our stern alarums changed to merry meet- 
ing, 
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures. 
Grim-visaged war has smoothed his wrinkled front; 
And now — instead of mounting barbed steeds. 
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries — 
He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber, 
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute. 

William Shakespeare. 

A BRIGHTER DAY. 

LET us reckon upon the future. A time will 
come when the science of destruction shall 
bend before the arts of peace ; when the 
genius which multiplies our powers — which creates 
new products — which diffuses comfort and happi- 
ness among the great mass of the people — shall 
occupy in the general estimation of mankind that 
rank which reason and cominon sense now as- 
sign to it. 



286 



THE SWORD AND THE PLOW. 



THE SOLDIER'S RETURN. 



HOW sweet it was to breathe that cooler air, 
And take possession of my father's chair ! 
Beneath my elbow, on the solid frame, 
Appeared the rough initials of my name, 
Cut forty years before ! The same old clock 
Struck the same bell, and gave my heart a shock 
I never can forget. A short breeze sprung, 
And while a sigh was trembling on my tongue. 
Caught the old dangling almanacs behind, 



While thus I mused, still gazing, gazing still, 

On beds of moss that spread the window-sill, 

I deemed no moss my eye had ever seen 

Had been so lovely, brilliant, fresh and green, 

And guessed some infant hand had placed it there, 

And prized its hue, so exquisite, so rare. 

Feelings on feelings mingling, doubling rose; 

My heart felt anything but calm repose ; 

I could not reckon minutes, hours, nor years, 




And up they flew like banners in the wind ; 
Then gently, singly, down, down, down they went, 
And told of twenty years that I had spent 
Far from my native land. That instant came 
A robin on the threshold ; ihougli so tame, 
At first he looked distrustful, almost shy. 
And cast on me his coal-black steadfast eye, 
And seemed to say- — past friendship to renew — 
"Ah ha! old worn-out soldier, is it you?" 



But rose at once, and found relief in tears; 

Then, like a fool, confused, sat down again, 

And thought upon the past with shame and pain ; 

I raved at war and all its horrid cost, 

And glory's quagmire, where the brave are lost. 

On carnage, fire, and plunder long I mused, 

And cursed the murdering weapons I had used. 

Robert Bloomfield. 



SOLDIER, REST! THY 

FROM •' THE LADY OF 

">OLDIER, rest ! thy warfare o'er, 

*S Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking ; 

-^ Dream of battled fields no more. 

Days of danger, nights of waking; 
In our isle's enchanted hall, 

Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, 
Fairy strains of music fall, 

Every sense in slumber dewing; 
Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er. 
Dream of fighting fields no more ; 
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, 
Morn of toil, nor night of waking. 

No rude sound shall reach thine ear, 
Armor's clang, or war-steed champing, 

Triumph nor pibroch summon here 
Mustering, or squadron tramping. 

Yet the lark's shrill fife may come 
Att he daybreak from the fallow, 



WARFARE O'ER. 

THE LAKE." 

And the bittern sound his drum, 

Booming from the sedgy shallow. 
Ruder sounds shall none be near. 
Guards nor warders challenge here ; 
Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing, 
Shouting clans or squadrons stamping. 

Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done, 

While our slumberous spells assail ye. 
Dream not, with the rising sun. 

Bugles here shall sound reveille. 
Sleep ! the deer is in his den ; 

Sleep ! thy hounds are by thee lying ; 
Sleep ! nor dream in yonder glen 

How thy gallant steed lay dying. 
Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done, 
Think not of the rising sun, 
For, at dawning to assail ye, 
Here no bugles sound reveille. 

Sir Walter Scott. 



THE SWORD AND THE PLOW. 



287 



ODE TO PEACE. 

DAUGHTER of God ! that sit'st on high 
Amid the dances of the sky, 
And guidest with thy gentle sway 
Thy planets on their tuneful way; 
Sweet Peace ! shall ne'er again 
The smile of thy most holy face, 
From thine ethereal dwelling-place, 
Rejoice the wretched, weary race 
Of discord-breathing men ? 



Then come from thy serene abode. 
Thou gladness-giving child of God ! 
And cease the world's ensanguined strife, 
And reconcile my soul to life; 

For much I long to see, 
Ere I shall to the grave descend, 
Thy hand its blessed branch extend. 
And to the world's remotest end 

Wave love and harmony 1 

William Tennent. 




^j.^ 



Too long, O gladness-giving queen ! 
Thy tarrying in heaven has been ; 
Too long o'er this fair blooming world 
The flag of blood has been unfurled, 

Polluting God's pure day ; 
Whilst, as each maddening peo|ile reels, 
War onward drives his scythed wheels, 
And at his horses' bloody heels 

Shriek murder and dismay. 

Oft have I wept to hear the cry 

Of widow wailing bitterly; 

To see the parent's silent tear 

For children fallen beneath the spear ; 

And I have felt so sore 
The sense of human guilt and woe, 
That I, in virtue's passioned glow. 
Have cursed (my soul was wounded so) 

The shape of man I bore ! 



WHEN BANNERS ARE WAVING. 



w 



HEN banners are waving, 
And lances a-pushing ; 
When captains are shouting. 
And war-horses rushing ; 
When cannon are roaring, 

And hot bullets flying. 
He that would honor win, 
Must not fear dying. 

Though shafts fly so thick 

That it seems to be snowing ; 
Though streamlets with blood 

More than water are flowing; 
Though with sabre and bullet 

Our bravest are dying. 
We speak of revenge, but 

We ne'er speak of flying. 



288 



THE SWORD AND THE PLOW. 



Come, stand to it, heroes ! 

The heathen are coming ; 
Horsemen are round the walls, 

Riding and running; 
Maidens and matrons all 

Arm ! arm ! are crying, 
From petards the wildfire's 

Flashing and flying. 

The trumpets from turrets high 

Loudly are braying ; 
The steeds for the onset 

Are snorting and neighing; 
As waves in the ocean, 

The dark plumes are dancing; 
As stars in the blue sky. 

The helmets are glancing. 

Their ladders are planting. 

Their sabres are sweeping; 
Now swords from our sheaths 

By the thousand are leaping ; 
Like the flash of the lightning 

Ere men hearken thunder, 
Swords gleam, and the steel caps 

Are cloven asunder. 

The shouting has ceased, 

And the flashing of cannon ! 
I looked from the turret 

For crescent and pennon : 
As flax touched by fire, 

As hail in the river. 
They were smote, they were fallen, 

And had melted for ever. 

BEFORE THE BATTLE. 

BY tlie hope within us springing, 
Herald of to-morrow's strife; 
By that sun, whose light is bringing 
Chains or freedom, death or life — 
Oh ! remember life can be 
No charm for him, who lives not free ! 
Like the day-star in the wave, 
Sinks a hero in his grave, 
Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears. 
Happv is he o'er whose decline 
The smiles of home may soothing shine. 
And light him down the steep of years ; 
But oh, how lilest they sink to rest, 
Who close their eyes on victory's breast ! 

O'er his watch-fire's fading embers 

Now the foeman's cheek turns white. 
When his heart that field remembers. 

Where we tamed his tyrant might. 

Never let him bind again 

K chain, like that we broke from then. 

Hark ! the horn of combat calls — 

Ere the golden evening falls, 
May we pledge that horn in triumph round ! 

Many a heart that now beats high, 



In slumber cold at night shall lie, 
Nor waken even at victory's sound. — 
But oh, how blest that hero's sleep. 
O'er whom a wond'ring world shall weep! 
Thomas Moore. 

THE BROADSWORDS OF SCOTLAND. 

NOW there's peace on the shore, now there's 
calm on the sea, 
Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords kept 
us free, 
Right descendants of Wallace, Montrose and 
Dundee. 

O the broadswords of old Scotland ! 
And O the old Scottish broadswords ! 

Old Sir Ralph Abercroniby, the good and the 

brave — 
Let him flee from our board, let him sleep with 

the slave. 
Whose libation comes slow while we honor his 

grave. 

Though he died not, like him, amid victory's 

roar. 
Though disaster and gloom wove his shroud on 

the shore, 
Not the less we remember the spirit of Moore. 

Yea, a place with the fallen the living sliall claim; 
We'll intwine in one wreath every glorious name. 
The Gordon, the Ramsay, the Hope, and the 
Graham. 

Count the rocks of the Spey, count the groves of 

the Forth, 
Count the stars in the clear, cloudless heaven of 

the north ; 
Then go blazon their numbers, their names, and 

their worth. 

The highest in splendor, the humblest in place, 

Stand united in glory, as kindred in race 

For the private is brother in blood to his Grace. 

Then sacred to each and to all let it be, 

Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords kept us 

free. 
Right descendants of Wallace, Montrose and 
Dundee. 
O the broadswords of old Scotland ! 
And O the old Scottish broadswords ! 

John G. Lockhart. 

LET THE SWORD RUST. 

WERE half the power that fills the world 
with terror. 
Were half the wealth bestowed on camps 
and courts. 
Given to redeem the human mind from error, 
There were no need of arsenals and forts ! 

H. W. Longfellow. 



THE SWORD AND THE PLOW. 



289 



"S 



THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA. 

I'EAK, and tell us, our Ximena, looking 
northward far away, 
O'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the 
Mexican array, 
Who is losing ? who is winning ? — are they far, 

or come they near? 
Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls 
the storm we hear ? 

" Down the hills of Angostura still the 
storm of battle rolls ; 
Blood is flowing, men are dying; God, 
have mercy on their souls ! ' ' 
"Who is losing? who is winning!" — 
" Over hill and over plain, 
I see but smoke of cannon clouding 
through the mountain rain." 

" Holy mother ! keep our brothers ! Look 

Ximena, look once more !" 
" Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling 
darkly as before, 
Bearing on in strange confusion, friend 

and foeman, foot and horse, 
Like some wild and troubled torrent 
sweeping down its mountain course." 

*' Look forth once more, Ximena !" "Ah ! 

the smoke has rolled away ; 
And I see the northern rifles gleaming 

down the ranks of grey. 
Hark ! that sudden blast of bugles ! 

there the troop of Minon wheels ; 
There the northern horses thunder, 

with the cannon at their heels. 

■" Jesus, pity ! how it thickens ! now re- 
treat and now advance ! 

Right against the blazing cannon shivers 
Puebla's charging lance ! 

Down they go, the brave young riders ; 
horse and foot together fall ; 

Like a ploughshare in the fallow, through 
them ploughs the northern ball." 

Nearer came the storm, and nearer, roll- 
ing fast and fri^ihtful on : 
" Speak, Ximena. speak and tell us, who 

has lost and who has won?" 
" Alas I alas ! I know not ; friend and 
foe together fall. 
O'er the dying rush the living: pray, my 
sisters, for I hem all ! 

"Lo! the wind the smoke is lifting; Blessed 
Mother, save my brain ! 
I can see the wounded crawling slowly out from 

heaps of slain. 
Now they stagger, blind and bleeding ; now 

they fall and strive to rise ; 
Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they 
die before our eyes I 
19 



Oh, my heart's love I oh, my dear one ! lay thy 

poor head on my knee ; 
Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee? canst 

thou hear me? canst thou see? 
Oh, my husband, brave and gentle ! oh, my 

Bernal, look once more 
On the blessed cross before thee ! Mercy ! 

mercy ! all is o'er I" 




NE\\S FROM THE BATTLE FIELD. 

Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena ; lay thy dear 

one down to rest ; 
Let his hands be meekly folded ; lay the cross 

upon his breast ; 
Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral 

masses said ; 
To-day, thou poor bereaved one ! the living ask 

thv aid. 



290 



THE SWORD AND THE PLOW. 



Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and 
young, a soldier lay, 

Torn with shot, and pierced with lances, bleed- 
ing slow his life away ; 

But, as tenderly before him the lorn Ximena 
knelt, 

She saw the northern eagle shining on his pistol 
belt. 

With a stifled cry of horror straight she turned 

away her head ; 
With a sad and bitter feeling looked she back 

upon her dead ; 
But she heard the youth's low moaning, and his 

struggling breath of pain. 
And she raised the cooling water to his parched 

lips again. 

Whispered low the dying soldier, pressed her 

hand, and faintly smiled : 
Was that pitying face his mother's? did she 

watch beside her child ? 
All his stranger words with meaning her woman's 

heart supplied ; 
With her kiss upon his forehead, " Mother !" 

murmured he, and died ! 

" A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who led 

thee forth, 
From some gentle, sad-eyed mother, weeping 

lonely in the North !" 
Spake the mournful Mexic woman, as she laid 

him with her dead, 
And turned to soothe the living, and bind the 

wounds which bled. 

*' Look forth once more, Ximena!" "Like a 

cloud before the wind 
Rolls the battle down the mountains, leaving 

blood and death behind ; 
Ah ! they plead in vain for mercy; in the dust 

the wounded strive ; 
Hide your faces, holy angels ! oh, thou Christ 

of God, forgive!" 

Sink, oh night, among thy mountains ! let the 
cool grey shadows fall ; 

Dying brothers, fighting demons, drop thy cur- 
tain over all I 

Through the thickening winter twilight, wide 
aijart the battle rolled, 

Li its sheath the sabre rested, and the cannon's 
lips grew cold. 

But the noble Mexic women still their holy task 

pursued, 
Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn 

and faint, and lacking food ; 
Over weak and suffering brothers, with a tender 

care they hung, 
And the dying foemen blessea them in a strange 

and northern tongue. 



Not wholly lost, O Father! is this evil world of 

ours: 
Upward through its blood and ashes, spring 

afresh the Eden flowers ; 
From its smoking hell of battle, love and ,pity 

send their prayer, 
And still thy wliite-winged angels hover dimly 

in our air. 

J. G. Whittier. 

A PICTURE OF PEACE. 

FROM "EVANGELINE." 

PEACE seemed to reign upon the earth, and 
the restless heart of the ocean 
Was for a moment consoled. All sounds 
were in harmony blended. 
Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks 

in the farm-yard, 
Whirr of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing 

of pigeons, 
All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, 

and the great sun 
Looked with eye of peace through the golden 
vapors around him. 

H. W. LoNf:FELLOW 

THE TYRANT'S SCOURGE. 

AH ! whence yon glare. 
That fires the arch of heaven ? — that dark 
red smoke 
Blotting the silver moon ? The stars are quenched 
In darkness, and pure and spangling snow 
Gleams faintly through the gloom that gathers 

round I 
Hark to that roar, whose swift and deafening peals 
In countless echoes through the mountains ring, 
Startling pale midnight on her starry throne ! 
Now swells the intermingling din ; the jar 
Frequent and frightful of the bursting bomb ; 
The falling beam, the shriek, the groan, the shout, 
The ceaseless clangor, and the rush of men 
Inebriate with rage ; — loud, and more loud 
The discord grows; till pale death shuts the scene, 
And o'er the conqueror and the conquered draws 
His cold and bloody shroud. Of ail the men 
Whom day's departing beam saw blooming there, 
In proud and vigorous health ; of all the hearts 
That beat with anxious life at sunset there, 
How few survive, how few are beating now ! 
All is deep silence, like the fearful calm 
That slumbers in the storm's portentous pause; 
Save when the frantic wail of widowed love 
Comes shuddering on the blast, or the faint moan 
With which some soul burst from the frame of clay 
Wrapt round its struggling powers. 

The gray morn 
Dawns on the mournful scene ; the sulphurous 

smoke 
Before the icy winds slow rolls away, 



THE SWORD AND THE PLOW. 



291 



T 



And the bright beams of frosty morning dance 
Along tlie spangling snow. There tracks of blood 
Even to the forest's depth, and scattered arms, 
And lifeless warriors, whose hard lineaments 
Death's self could change not, mark the dreadful 

path 
Of the outsallying victors ; far behind, 
Black ashes note where their proud city stood. 
Within yon forest is a gloomy glen — 
Each tree which guards its darkness from the day 
Waves o'er a warrior's tomb. 

War is the statesman's game, the priest's delight, 

The lawyer's jest, the hired assassin's trade, 

And to those royal murderers whose mean thrones 

Are bought by crimes of treachery and gore. 

The bread they eat, the staff on which they lean. 

Guards, garbed in blood red livery, surround 

Their palaces, participate the crimes 

That force defends, and from a nation's rage 

Secure the crown, which all the curses reach 

That famine, frenzy, woe and penury breathe. 

These are the hired bravos who defend 

The tyrant's throne. Percy P. Shelley. 

THE DEATH OF THE WARRIOR KING. 

HERE are noble heads bowed down and pale, 
Deep sounds of woe arise, 
And tears flow fast around the couch 
Where a wounded warrior lies; 
The hue of death is gathering dark 

Upon his lofty brow, 
And the arm of might and valor falls. 
Weak as an infant's now. 

I saw him 'mid the battling hosts. 

Like a bright and leading star. 
Where banner, helm and falchion gleamed, 

And flew the bolts of war. 
When, in his plentitude of power, 

He trod the Holy Land, 
I saw the routed Saracens 

Flee from his blood-dark brand. 

I saw him in the banquet hour 

Forsake the festive throng. 
To seek his favorite minstrel s haunt. 

And give his soul to song ; 
For dearly as he loved renown, 

He loved that spell-wrought strain 
Which bade the braves of perished days 

Light conquest's torch again. 

Then seemed the bard to cope with time. 

And triumph o'er his doom — 
Another world in freshness burst 

Oblivion's mighty tomb ! 
Again the hardy Britons rushed 

Like lions to the fight, 
Wiiile horse and foot — helm, shield and lance, 

Swept by his visioned sight ! 



But battle shout and waving plume. 

The drum's heart-stirring beat, 
The glittering pomp of prosperous war. 

The rush of million feet. 
The magic of the minstrel's song. 

Which told of victories o'er, 
Are sights and sounds the dying king 

Shall see — shall hear no more ! 

It was the hour of deep midnight, 

In the dim and quiet sky, 
Wh»n, uith sable clock and 'broidered pall, 

A funeral-train swept by ; 
Dull and sad fell the torches' glare 

On many a stately crest — 
They bore the noble warrior king 

To his last dark home of rest. 

Charles Swain. 



I 



THE FLIGHT OF XERXES. 

SAW him on the battle-eve. 

When like a king he bore him — 
Proud hosts in glittering helm and greave. 
And prouder chiefs before him; 
The warrior, and the warrior's deeds. 
The morrow, and the morrow's meeds. 

No daunting thoughts came o'er him ; 
He looked around him, and his eye 
Defiance flashed to earth and sky. 

He looked on ocean — its broad breast 

Was covered with his fleet; 
On earth — ^and saw from east, to west 

His bannered millions meet ; 
While rock and glen and cave and coast 
Shook with the war-cry of that host, 

The thunder of their feet! 
He heard the imperial echoes ring — 
He heard, and felt liimself a king. 

I saw him next alone : nor camp 

Nor chief his steps attended ; 
Nor banner blazed, nor courser's tramp 

With war-cries proudly blended. 
He stood alone, whom fortune high 
So lately seemed to deif)-; 

He who with heaven contended 
Fled like a fugitive and slave! 
Behind, the foe; before, the wave. 

He stood — fleet, army, treasure, gone — 

Alone, and in despair I 
But wave and wind swept ruthless on, 

For they were monarchs there ; 
And Xerxes, in a single bark. 
Where late his thousand shijis were dark. 

Must all their fury dare. 
What a revenge — a trophy, this — 
For thee, immortal Salamis ! 

Maria J. Jewsbury. 



292 



THE SWORD AND THE PLOW. 



AFTER THE TEMPEST. 

IT was a scene of peace — and, like a spell, 
Did that serene and golden sunlight fall 
Upon the motionless wood that clothed the 
fell, 
And precipice upspringing like a wall. 
And glassy river and white waterfall, 
And liappy living things that trod the bright 
And beauteous scene : while far beyend them all. 
On many a lovely valley, out of sight, 

Was poured from the blue heavens the same soft 
golden light. 

I looked, and thought the quiet of the scene 
An emblem of the peace that yet shall be. 
When o'er earth's continents, and isles between, 
The noise of war shall cease from sea to sea. 
And married nations dwell in harmony ; 
When millions, crouching in the dust to one, 
No more shall beg their lives on bended knee. 
Nor the black stake be dressed, nor in the sun 
The o'erlabored captive toil, and wish his life 
were done. 

Too long, at clash of arms amid her bowers 
And pools of blood, the earth has stood aghast. 
The fair earth, that should only blush with flowers 
And ruddy fruits; but not for aye can last 
The storm, and sweet the sunshine when 'tis past. 
Lo, the clouds roll away — they break— they fly. 
And, like the glorious light of summei cast 
O'er the wide lindscape from the embracing sky. 
On all the peaceful world the smile of heaven 
shall lie. W. C. Bryant. 

LEFT ON THE BATTLE=FIELD. 

WHAT, was it a dream ? am I all alone 
In the dreary night and the driz- 
zling rain ? 
Hist ! — ah, it was only the river's moan ; 
They have left me behind with the mangled 
slain . 

Yes, now I remember it all too well ! 

We met, from the battling ranks apart ; 
Together our weapons flashed and fell. 

And mine was sheathed in his quivering 
heart. 

In the cypress gloom, where the deed was done, 

It was all too dark to see his face ; 
But I heard his death-groans, one by one, 

And he holds me still in a cold embrace. 

He spoke but once and I could not hear 
The words he said, for the cannon's roar ; 

But my heart grew cold with a deadly fear — 
O God ! I had heard that voice before ! 

Had heard it before at our mother's knee, 

When we lisped the words of our evening 
prayer ! 



My brother ! would I had died for thee — 
This burden is more that my soul can bear ! 

I pressed my lips to his death- cold cheek. 

And begged him to show me, by word or sign, 

That he knew and forgave me : he could not 
speak. 
But he nestled his poor cold face to mine. 

The blood flowed fast from my wounded side, 
And then for a while 1 forgot my pain, 

And over the lakelet we seemed to glide 
In our little boat, two boys again. 

And then, in my dream, we stood alone 
On a forest path where the shadows fall; 

And I heard again the tremulous tone, 
And the tender words of his last farewell. 

But that parting was years, long years ago. 
He wandered away to a foreign land ; 

And our dear old mother will never know 
That he died to-night by his brother's hand. 

The soldiers who buried the dead away 

Disturbed not the clasp of that last embrace, 

But laid them to sleep till the judgment-day. 
Heart folded to heart, and face to face. 

Sarah T. Bolton. 

HORRORS OF WAR. 

A VAUNT thee, liorrid war: whose miasms, 
bred 
Of nether darkness and tarti.rean swamps, 

Float o'er this fallen world, and blight the 
flowers, 
Sole relics of a ruined Eden ! Hence, 
With all thy cruel ravages ! fair homes 
Rifled for thee of husband, brother, son ; 
Wild passions slipped like hell-hounds in the 

heart. 
And baying in full cry for blood ; the shock 
Of battle : the quick throes of dying men ; 
The ghastly stillness of the mangled dead; 
The crumbling ramjiarts breached, the city 

stormed, 
The shrieks of violated innocence, 
And bloom, almost too delicate for the print 
Of bridal kisses and the touch of love, 
Ruthlessly trampled underneath the heel 
Of armed lust ; and, pitiful to see. 
The mother's womb ripped by the pitiless sword, 
And life — her unborn offspring's, and her own — ■ 
Shed in short mortal travail ; lurid flames, 
Wrapping the toils of arduous centuries 
And hones of ages in one funeral pyre; 
Gaunt famine after, and remorseless plague, 
Reaping their myriads where the warrior's scythe 
Had been content with thousands ; leaving scars 
Upon a nation's heart, which never time 
Wholly can heal : hence horrid, horrid war ! 

Edward H, Bickeesteth. 



THE SWORD AND THE PLOW. 



2Sa 



THE INDIAN BRAVE. 

I AM fresh from the conflict— I'm drunk with 
the blood 
Of the white men, who chased me o'er prai- 
rie and flood, 
Till I trapped them at last, and exultingly swore 
That my fearless red warriors should revel in 

gore ! 
1 have well kept my oath, O Manitou, the Just ! 



N 



AFTER THE BATTLE. 

IGHT closed around the conqueror's way, 
And lightnings showed the distant hill, 
Where those who lost that dreadful day, 
Stood few and faint, but fearless still. 
The soldier's hojie, the patriot's zeal, 
For ever dimmed, lor ever crost — 
Oh ! who shall say what heroes feel, 
When all but life and honor's lost ? 




Three hundred white hirelings are low in the dust. 
The unequal conflict was bloody and brief. 
And they weep for their men and their golden- 
haired chief. 

I hate the palefaces ! I'll fight to the death 
While the prairies are mine, and a warrior has 

breath ! 
By the bones of our fathers, whose ruin they 

wrought, 
When they first trod our land, and for sympathy 

sought — 
By the souls of our slain, when our villages 

burned — 
By all the black vices our people have learned. 
No season of rest shall my enemies see, 
Till the earth drinks my blood, or my people are 

free. 

Francis S. Smith. 



The last sad hour of freedom's dream. 

And valor's ta.sk, moved slowly by. 
While mute they watched, till morning's beam 

Should rise and give them light to die. 
There's yet a world, where souls are free. 

Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss; — 
If death that world's bright opening be. 

Oh ! who would live a slave in this ? 

Thomas Moore. 

COMING PEACE. 

DRUMS and battle cries 
Go out in music of the morning star ; 
And soon we shall have thinkers in the 
place 
Of fighters ; each found able as a man 
To strike electric influence through a race. 
Unstayed by city-wall and barbican. 

Elizabeth B. Browning. 



294 



THE SWORD AND THE PLOW. 



THE LEGEND OF SIR JOSEPH WAQ= 
STAFF. 

A WARWICKSHIRE BALLAD. 

FROM Salisbury Church the bells rang out, 
Right shar|i their notes and stern ; 
Within the town were rabble and rout, 
Like tow did the houses burn, 
And the prisoners freed were all about 
Wherever a man mieht turn. 



Till the roar and the clash and the battled 
flash 
Burst in on their intent. 

" Now hang them all !" Sir Joseph cried, 

And sternly flashed his eye; 
' ■ The craven cowards that dare to doom 

And do not dare to die ! 
If my neck's in the other end of the rope, 

Quoth Wagstafif, ' " What care I ?" ' 




'I CHARGE THEE, BOY, LET GO 



For its hey, ho ! boot and saddle ! 
, And up with the sceptre and crown ! 
The day of the great Assizes 

Like a storm swept Wagstaff down. 
With his men and his arms and his drums and alarms 

To the gates of Salisbury town. 

The Judges sat in their grave sad state 

That the rebel Commons sent. 
And many a loyal man and true 

To a felon's prison went ; 



Now Cromwell has taken him to horse 

And gathered a goodly band 
To fight with Sir Joseph Wagstaff's force 

In the swelling Devon land, 
And cut down their ranks like new-mown grass 

Till never a man mote stand. 

" Ho, lead the flight, Sir Arthur Knight ! 

For one must head the race. 
But to turn his back on a stricken fight 

Is not a Wagtaff's place, 



THE SWORD AND THE PLOW. 



295 



And the hills of Devon are as near to heaven 
As Charlcote's sheltered chace. 

" My little page, why dost thou stand 

And view thy master so ? 
Poor little lad, let go my hand, 

I charge thee, boy, let go ! 
What have I ever done for thee 

That thou shouldst love me so ? 

■" If thou escaps't this bloody day 

Hie thee to Tachbrook Hall, 
And tell Dame Alice it is our way 

In battlefield to fall, 
There were twenty Wagstaffs to my day 

And they fell in battle all ! 

" Would they had slain me where I stood 

'Neath the blue and open sky, 
For this foul dank prison taints my blood 

And a dog's death I must die. 
M'as never a Wagstaff died like this 

Without his good sword nigh ! 

" Farewell, farewell, to Tachbrook Hall 
Where the noble park-lands sweep ! 

Farewell to the lush sweet meadows all 
Where the peaceful cattle sleep I 

Farewell, broad oaks and elm trees tall 
By the quiet river deep ! 

" Farewell, my babe, thou child of care. 

Heir of thy lather's fame ! 
Thou tiny tender prop to bear 

Old Wagstaff' s honored name ! 
God grant thee strength that name to wear 

Unsullied as it came ! 

" But woe and curse and endless shame 

And vain remorse's sting 
Be his, the first of Wagstaff's name 

That turns from Church and King! 
God blight the ripe fruit of his age 

The blossoms of his spring ! 

" And his be every foul disgrace 

And every bitter pain, 
May he go mourning all his days 

Where once he used to reign ! 
May all his strength be spent for naught 

And all his toil in vain ! 

" Farewell, farewell, my gentle wife, 

Now widowed ere thy prime — 
How differently I planned thy life 

The last sweet summer-time. 
When we trod the path from the gray church 
tower 

That rang our wedding chime. 

" Farewell, farewell, my own right hand. 

My nervo\is arm and true ! 
Poor body, on the scaffold's sand 

I take my leave of you ! 



I would 'twere 'mid an armed band 
With a good pike piercing through !" 

In Tachbrook's ancient, solemn church 

Are Wagstaff tombs enow ; 
Twenty knights and twenty dames 

In sculptured marble show, 
But Sir Joseph's head with blood-clots red 

Rots where the Thames doth flow. 

A stranger rules in Tachbrook Hall — 

A stranger still shall reign ! 
"Away!" he cries, " ye King's men all, 

Ye ne'er shall come again !" 
Thus cruel he cried e'er tears were dried 

That marked the widow's pain. 

Yet still they say at Tachbrook Hall 

They hear a bugle horn 
Full cheerly to the hunter's call 

At early break of morn. 
The silver notes on the breeze that floats 

In the valleys far upborne. 

And still when summer clothes the land 

With soft enamelled green, 
A figure on the terrace old 

At even oft is seen. 
With pensive brow and locks of gold. 

And a grave and knightly mien. 

But the startled reaper drops his hook 

And shrinks with a ghastly fear. 
When he sees 'mid the line of the golden grain 

The shrivelled and blasted ear — 
For the mildew black marks Sir Joseph's track. 

And he knows that his step is here. 

And when the hard rime clasps the trees. 

And biting north winds blow. 
He keeps his watch by the mouldering arch, 

As in days of long ago. 
And at morn they say 'twas no mortal tread 

Made that footprint on the snow. 

.•\nd still on the storm round Tachbrook Hall 

A shadowy phantom Hies, 
And ever he looks through the casements tall 

With sad, reproachful eyes ; 
While through shutter and bar they know afar 

That without a spirit cries ! 

They say Sir Joseph's restless sprite 

For twice seven lives must wait. 
Till the lands shall pass to a lady bright. 

Who shall take a ^^^agstaff mate ; 
The old, old wounds of hate. 

Till then there hangs o'er Tachbrook Hall 

A shadow dim and gray, 
And sad with tears of other years 

That time should sweep away, 
.\nd it may not lift for griefs or fears 

Till dawns that distant day. J. M. Wagstaff. 



296 



THE SWORD AND THE PLOW. 



T 



THE TIME OF WAR. 

HE flags of war like storm-birds fly, 
The charging trumpets blow; 
Yet rolls no thunder in the sky. 
No earthquake strives below. 



U 



And, calm and patient, nature keeps 
Her ancient promise well, 
Though o'er her bloom and greenness sweeps 
The battle's breath of hell. 

And still she walks in golden hours 
Through harvest-happy farms, 
And still she wears her fruits and flowers 
Like jewels on her arms. 

What mean the gladness of the plain, 
This joy of eve and morn. 
The mirth that shakes the beard of grain 
And yellow locks of corn ? 

Ah ! eyes may well be full of tears. 
And hearts with hate are hot ; 
But even-paced come round the years. 
And nature changes not. 

She meets with smiles our bitter grief, 
With songs our groans of pain; 
She mocks with tint of flower and leaf 
The war field's crimson stain. 

Still, in the cannon's pause we hear 
Her sweet thanksgiving psalm ; 
Too near to God for doubt or fear. 
She shares the eternal calm. 

She knows the seed lies safe below 
The fires that blast and burn ; 
For all the tears of blood we sow 
She waits the rich return. 

She sees with clearer eye tlian ours 
The good of suffering born — 
The hearts that blossom like her flowers. 
And ripen like her corn. 

j. G. Whittier. 



CIVIL WAR. 

IFLEMAN, shoot me a fancy shot 

Straight at the heart of yon prowling 
vidette ; 

Ring me a ball in the glittering spot 
That shines on his breast like an amulet !" 



R" 



" Ah, captain ! here goes for a fine-drawn bead, 
There's music around when my barrel's in 
tune!" 
Crack ! went the rifle, the messenger sped. 

And dead from his horse fell the ringing 
dragoon. 

" Now, rifleman, steal through the bushes, and 
snatch 
From your victim some trinket to handsel first 
blood , 
A button, a loop, or that luminous patch 

That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud !" 

" O captain ! I staggered, and sunk on my track. 

When I gazed on the face of that fallen vidette. 

For he looked so like you, as he lay on his 

back, 

That my heart rose upon me, and masters me 

yet. 

"But I snatched off the trinket — this locket of 
gold ; 
An inch from the centre my lead broke its 
way. 
Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold. 
Of a beautiful lady in bridal array. ' ' 

" Ha ! rifleman, fling me the locket ! — 't is she. 
My brother's young bride — and the fallen 
dragoon 
Was her husband — Hush! soldier, 'twas Heaven's 
decree. 
We must bury him there, by the light of the 
moon ! 

"But, hark ! the far bugles their warnings unite; 

War is a virtue — weakness a sin ; 
There's a lurking and loping around us to-night ; 

Load again, rifleman, keep your hand in !" 

FAIR PEACE. 

OH first of human blessings ! and supreme ! 
Fair peace ! how lovely, how delightful 
thou ! 
By whose wide tie the kindred sons of men 
Live brothers like, in amity combined, 
And unsuspicious faith ; while honest toil 
GivfS every joy, and to those joys a right. 
Which idle, barbarous rapine but usurps. 

James Thomson. 



RURAL SCENES: 



OR 



LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF COUNTRY LIFE. 




FARMER JOHN. 

OME frcjm his journey Farmer John 

Arrived this morning safe and sound ; 
His black coat off and his old clothes on, 
" Now I'm myself," says Farmer John; 
And he thinks, " I'll look around." 

Up leaps the dog : " Get down, you pup ! 
Are you so glad you would eat me up?' 
The old cow lows at the gate to greet him, 
The horses prick up their ears to meet liim: 
•' Well, well, old Bay! 
Ha, ha, old Gray ! 
Do you get good food \\hen I'm awa) ? 

" You haven't a rib," says Farmer John; 
" The cattle are looking round and sleek; 
The colt is going to be a roan, 
And a beauty too ; how he has grown ! 
We'll wean the calf next week." 



Says Farmer John, " When I've been off, 
To call you again about the trough, 
And watch you and pet you while you drink. 
Is a greater comfort than you can think!" 

And he jiats old Bay, 

And he slaps old Gray. 
" Ah, this is the comfort of going away ! 

" For after all,'' says Farmer John, 

" The best of a journey is getting home. 
I've seen great sights, but would I give 
This spot, and the peaceful life I live. 
For all their Paris and Rome ? 

" These hills for the city's stifled air, 
Vnd big hotels, all bustle and glare; 
Laud all houses, and roads all stones 
That deafen your ears and batter your bones? 

Would you, old Bay? 

Would you, old Gray? 
That's what one gets by going away. 

" I've found this out," says Farmer John, 
" That hajjpiness is not bought and sold, 
And clutched in a life of waste and hurry. 
In nights of pleasure and days of worry; 

And wealth isn't all in gold. 
Mortgages, stocks, and ten per cent.. 
But in simple ways and sweet content ; 



Few wants, pure hope, and noble ends. 
Some land to till, and a few good friends 

Like you, old Bay, 

And you, old Gray : 
That's what I learned by going away." 

J. T. Trowbridge. 

THE VILLAGE BOY. 

FREE from the village corner, see how wild 
The village boy along the pasture hies. 
With every smell, and sound, and sight be- 
guiled. 
That round the prospect meets his wondering 
eyes ; 
Now, stooping, eager for the cowslip peeps, 

As though he'd get them all, — now tired of tl-.ese. 
Across the flaggy brook he eager leaps, 

For some new flower his happy rapture sees; — 

Now, leering 'mid the bushes on his knees 

On woodland banks, for blue-bell flowers he 
creeps ; — 
And now, while looking up among the trees. 

He spies a nest, and down he throws his flowers. 
And up he climbs with new-fed ecstasies; 
The happiest object in the summer hours. 

J. G. Clarke. 

297 



298 



RURAL SCENES. 



HOMESICK FOR THE COUNTRY. 

I'D kind o' like to have a cot 
Fixed on some sunny slope ; a spot 
Five acres more or less, 




To solace mine and me, 
I kind o' think I should desire 
To hear around the lawn a choir 
Of wood-birds singing sweet ; 

And in a dell I'd have a brook, 
Where I might sit and read my 
book. 

Such should be my retreat, 
Far from the city's crowd and 

noise ; 
There would I rear the girls 
and boys, 
(I have some two or three). 
And if kind Heaven should 

bless my store 
With five or six or seven more, 
How happy I would be ! 

SUMMER WOODS. 



t; 



With maples, cedars, cherry-trees, 
And poplars whitening in the breeze. 

'T would suit my tiste, I guess. 
To have the porch with vines o'erhung, 
With bells of pendant woodbine swung. 

In every bell a bee : 
And round my latticed window spread 
A clump of roses, white and red. 



HE ceaseless hum of men, 

the dusty streets, 
Crowded with multitudi- 
nous life; the din 

Of toil and traffic, and the woe 
and sin, 

The dweller in the populous 
city meets ; 

These have I left to seek the 
cool retreats 

Of the untrodden forest,where, 
in bowers 

Builded by nature's hand, in- 
laid with flowers, 

/\nd roofed with ivy, on the 
mossy seats 

Reclining, I can while away 
the hours 

In sweetest converse with old 
books, or give 

My thoughts to God ; or fan- 
cies fugitive 

Indulge, while over me their 
radiant showers 

Of rarest blossoms the old trees 
shake down. 

And thanks to Him my medi- 
tations crown ! 
William H. Burleigh. 



DEATH IN THE COUNTRY. 

FROM " THE DUTCHMAN'S FIRESIDE." 

THERE is to my mind and to my early recol- 
lections something exquisitely touching in 
the tolling of a church-bell amid the silence 
of the country. It communicates for miles around 
the message of mortality. The ploughman stops 
his horses to listen to the solemn tidings; the 



RURAL SCENES. 



299 



housewife remits her domestic occupations, and 
sits with iier needle idle in her fingers, to ponder 
who it is that is going to the long home ; and even 
the little thoughtless children, playing and laugh- 
ing their way from school, are arrested for a mo- 
ment in their evening gambols by these sounds of 
uielancholy import, and cover their heads when 
they go to rest. 

James K. Paulding. 

THAT CALF. 

TO the yard, by the barn, came the farmer one 
morn. 
And, calling the cattle, he said, 
Whde they trembled with fright: " Now which 
of you, last night, 
Shut the barn door while I was abed?" 
Each one of them all shook his head. 

Now the little calf Spot, she was down in the lot. 
And the way the rest talked was a shame ; 

For no one, night before, saw her shut up the 
door ; 
But they said that she did, all the same, 
For they always made her take the blame. 

Said the horse (dapple gray), "I was not up that 
way 
Last night, as I now recollect;" 
And the bull, passing by, tossed his horns very 
high. 
And said, " Let who may here object, 
I say this, that calf I suspect." 

Then out spoke the cow, '-It is terrible now, 
To accuse honest folks of such tricks." 

Said the cock in the tree, "I'm sure'twasn't me;" 
And the sheep all cried, "Bah! (there were 

six) 
Now that calf s got herself in a fix." 

"Why, of course we all knew 'twas the wrong 
thing to do," 
Said the chickens. "Of course," said the cat. 
"I suppose," cried the mule, "some folks think 
me a fool, 
But I'm not quite so simple as that ; 
The poor calf never knows what she's at." 

Just that moment, the calf, who was always the 
laugh 
And the jest of the yard, came in sight. 
■' Did you shut my barn door?" asked the farmer 
once more. 
"I did, sir, I closed it last night," 
Said the calf; " and I thought that was right." 

Then each one shook his head. " She will catch 
it," they cried, 
"Serves her right for her meddlesome ways." 
Said the farmer, " Come here, little bossy, my 
dear, 



You have done what I cannot repay. 
And your fortune is made from to-day. 

" For a wonder, last night, I forgot the door quite. 
And if you had not shut it so neat, 

All my colts had slipped in, and gone right to the 
bin. 
And got what they ought not to eat. 
They'd have foundered themselves upon wheat." 

Then each hoof of them all began loudly to bawl, 
The verv mule smiled, the cock crew : 

"Little Spotty, my dear, you're a favorite here," 
They cried, " we all said it was you. 
We were so glad to give you your due." 
And the calf answered knowingly, "Boo!" 

Phit.be Gary. 

SLEIGH SONG. 

JINGLE, jingle, clear the way, 
'Tis the merry, merry sleigh; 
As it swiftly scuds along 
Hear the burst of happy song. 
See the gleam of glances bright, 
Flashing o'er the pathway white. 

Jingle, jingle, past it flies. 
Sending shafts from hooded eyes, — 
Roguish archers, I'll be bound. 
Little heeding whom they wound ; 
See them, with capricious pranks. 
Ploughing now the drifted banks. 

Jingle, jingle, mid the glee 

Who among them cares for me? 

Jingle, jingle, on they go, 

Capes and bonnets white with snow, 

Not a single robe they fold 

To protect them from the cold. 

Jingle, jingle, mid the storm, 
Fun and frolic keep them warm ; 
Jingle, jingle, down the hills, 
O er the meadows, past the mills. 
Now 't is slow, and now 't is fast; 
Winter will not always last. 
Jingle, jingle, clear the way, 
'Tis the merry, merry sleigh. 

G. W. Pettee. 

A CHARMING PROSPECT. 

GROVES, fields, and meadows are at any 
season of the year pleasant tc look upon, 
but never so much as in the opening of 
the spring, when they are all new and fre*'"^ .nn 
their first glow upon them, and not yet too much 
accustomed and familiar to the eye. For this 
reason there is nothing that more enlivens a pros- 
pect than rivers, jetteaus, or falls of water, where 
the scene is perpetually shifting, and entertaining 
the sight every moment with something that is new. 

Joseph Addison. 



800 



RURAL SCENES. 



L 



NIGHTFALL: A PICTURE. 

OW burns the summer afternoon ; 
A mellow lustre lights the scene ; 
And from its smiling beauty soon 

The purpling shade will chase the sheen. 



The old, quaint homestead's windows blaze ; 
The cedars long black pictures show ; 



The harness, bridle, saddle dart 

Gleam from the lower, rough expanse ; 

At either side the stooping cart. 

Pitchfork, and plow cast looks askance. 

White Dobbin through the stable doors 
Shows his round shape ; faint color coats 

The manger, where the farmer pours, 
With rustling rush, the glancing oats. 




And broadly slopes one path of rays 
Within the barn, and makes it glow. 

The loft stares out — the cat intent. 
Like carving, on some gnawing rat — 

With sun-bathed hay and rafters bent, 

Nocked, cobwebbed homes of wasp and bat. 



A sun haze streaks the dusty shed ; 

Makes spears of seams and gems of chinks ; 
In mottled gloss the straw is spread : 

And the grey grindstone dully blinks. 

The sun sahites the lowest west 

With gorgeous tints around it drawn ;. 



RURAL SCENES. 



301 



A beacon on the mountain's breast, 
A crescent, shred, a star — and gone. 

The landscape now prepares for night ; 

A gauzy mist slow settles round ; 
Eve shows her hues in every sight, 

And blends her voice with every sound. 

The sheep stream rippling down the dell. 
Their smooth, sharp laces pointed straight; 

The pacing kine, with tinkling bell. 
Come grazing tl'.rongh the pasture gate. 

The ducks are grouped, and talk in fits ; 

One yawns with stretch of leg and wing ; 
One rears and fans, then, settling, sits ; 

One at a moth makes awkward spring. 

The geese march grave in Indian file, 
'Die ragged ])atriarch at the head ; 

Then, screaming, flutter off awhile,. 
Fold up, and once more stately tread. 

Brave chanticleer shows haughtiest air; 

Hurls his shrill vaunt with lofty bend; 
Lifts foot, glares round, then follows where 

His scratching, picking partlets wend 

Staid Towser scents the glittering ground ; 

Then, yawning, draws a crescent deep, 
Wheels his head-drooping frame around 

.And sinks with forepaws stretched for sleep. 

The oxen, loosened from the plow, 
Rest by the pear tree's crooked trunk; 

Tim, standing with yoke-burdened brow, 
Trim, in a mound beside him sunk. 

One of the kine upon the bank. 

Heaves her face-lifting, wheezy roar; 

One smooths, with lapping tongue, her flank ; 
With ponderous droop one finds the floor. 

Freed Dobbin through the soft, clear dark 
Glimmers across the pillared scene, 

With the grouped geese — a pallid mark — 
.And scattered bushes black between. 

The fire-flies freckle every spot 

With fickle light that gleams and dies ; 

The bat, a wavering, soundless blot, 
The cat, a pair of prowling eyes 

Still the sweet, fragrant dark o'erflows 
The deepening air and darkening ground, 

By its rich scent I trace the rose. 
The viewless beetle by its sound. 

The cricket scrapes its rib-like bars ; 

The tree-toad purrs in whirring tone ; 
And now the heavens are set with stars, 

And night and quiet reign alone. 

Alfred B. Street. 



THE HOUSE ON THE HILL. 

FROM the weather-worn house on the brow of 
the hill 
We are dwelling afar, in our manhood, to- 
day ; 
But we see the old gables and hollyhocks still. 
As they looked long ago, ere we wandered 
away ; 
We can see the tall well sweep that stands by the 

door. 
And the sunshine that gleams on the old oaken 
floor. 

We can hear the low hum of the hard-working 
bees 
At their toil in our father's old orchard, once 
more, 

In the broad, trembling tops of the bright-bloom- 
ing trees. 
As they busily gather their sweet winter store; 

And the murmuring brook, the delightful old 
horn. 

And the cawing black crows that are pulling the 
corn. 

We can hear the sharp creak of the farm-gate 

again 
And the loud, cackling hens in the gray barn 

near by, 
With its broad sagging floor and its scaffolds of 

grain. 
And its rafters that once seemed to reach to the 

sky ; 
We behold the great beams, and the bottomless 

ba)' 
Where the farm-boys once joyfully jumped on the 

hay. 

We can see the low hog-pen, just over the way. 
And the long-ruined shed by the side of the 

road. 
Where the sleds in the summer were hidden away 
And the wagons and plows in the winter were 

stowed ; 
And the cider-mill, down in the hollow below. 
With a long, creaking sweep, the old horse used 

to draw. 
Where we learned by the homely old tub long ago. 
What a world of sweet rapture there was in a 

straw. 
From the cider-casks there, loosely lying around. 
More leaked from the bung-holes than dripped on 

the ground. 

We beheld the bleak hillsides still bristling with 
rocks. 
Where the mountain streams murmured with 
musical sound, 
Where we hunted and fished, where we chased the 
red fox, 
With lazy old house-dog or loud-baying hound ; 



302 



RURAL SCENES. 



And the cold, cheerless woods we delighted to 
tramp 
For the shy, whirring partridge, in snow to our 
knees, 
Where, with neck-yoke and pails, in the old sugar- 
camp, 
We gathered the sap from the tall maple-trees ; 
And the fields where our plows danced a furious 

While we wearily followed the furrow all day, 
Where we stumbled and bounded o'er boulders so 
big 
That it took twenty oxen to draw them away ; 

Where we sowed, where we hoed, where we cra- 
dled and mowed. 
Where we scattered the swaths that were heavy 
with dew, 
Where we tumbled, we pitched, and behind the 
tall load 
The broken old bull-rake reluctantly drew. 

How we gra-iped the old "Sheepskin" with feel- 
ings of scorn 
As we straddled the back of the old sorrel mare, 
And rode up and down through the green rows of 
corn, 
Like a pin on a clothes line that sways in the air ; 
We can hear our stern fathers reproving us still. 
As the careless old creature "comes down on a 
hill." 

We are far from the home of our boyhood to-day. 
In the battle of life we are struggling alone; 

The weather-worn farmhouse has gone to decay, 
The chimney has fallen, its swallows have flown. 

But fancy yet brings, on her bright golden wings, 
Her beautiful pictures again from the past, 

And memory fondly and tenderly clings 

To pleasures and pastimes too lovely to last. 

We wander again by the river to-day ; 

We sit in the school-room, o'erflowing with fun. 
We whisper, we ])lay, and we scamper away 

When our lessons are learned and the spelling 
is done. 

We see the old cellar where apples were kept. 
The garret where all the old rubbish was thrown. 

The little back chamber where snugly Ave slept, 
The homely old kitchen. the broad hearth of stone, 

Where apples were roasted in many a row, 

Where our grandmothers nodded and knit long 
ago. 

Our grandmothers long have reposed in the tomb ; 
With a strong, healthy race they have peopled 
the land ; 
They worked with the spindle, they toiled at the 
loom. 
Nor lazily brought up their babies by hand. 



The old flint-lock musket, whose awful recoil 
Made many a Nimrod with agony cry. 

Once hung on the chimney, a part of the spoil 
Our gallant old grandfathers captured at "Ti." 

Brave men were our grandfathers, sturdy and strong ; 
The kings of the forest they plucked from their 
lands ; 
They were stern in their virtues, they hated all " 
wrong. 
And they fought for the right with their hearts 
and their hands. 

Down, down from the hillsides they swept in their 
might, 

And up from the valleys they went on their way, 
To fight and to fall upon Hubbardton's height. 

To struggle and conquer in Bennington's fray. 

Oh ! fresh be their memory, cherished the sod 
That long has grown green o'er their sacred re- 
mains, 
And grateful our hearts to a generous God 

For the blood and the spirit that flows in our 
veins. 

Our Aliens, our Starks, and our Warrens are gone. 
But our mountains remain with their evergreen 
crown. 

The souls of our heroes are yet marching on. 
The structure they founded shall never go down. 

From the weather-worn house on the brow of the hill 
We are dwelling afar, in our manhood to-day ; 

But we see the old gables and hollyhocks still, 
As they looked when we left them to wander 
away. 

But the dear ones we loved in the sweet long ago 

In the old village churchyard sleep under the snow. 

Farewell to the friends of our bright boyhood days, 
To the beautiful vales once delightful to roam. 

To the fathers, the mothers, now gone from our 
gaze. 
From the weather-worn house to their heavenly 
home. 

Where they wait, where they watch, and will wel- 
come us still, 

As they waited and watched in the house on the 
hill. Eugene J. Hall. 

AGRICULTURE. 

IN ancient times, the sacred plough employed 
The kings, and awful fathers of mankind ; 
And some, with whom compared your insect 
tribes 
Are but the beings of a summer's day. 
Have held the scale of em])ire, ruled the storm 
Of mighty war, then, with unwearied hand. 
Disdaining little delicacies, seized 
The plough, and greatly independent lived. 

James Thomson. 




303 



304 



RURAL SCENES. 



DAN'S WIFE. 

UP in early morning light, 
Sweeping, dusting, " setting aright," 
Oiling all the household springs, 
Sewing buttons, tying strings, 
Telling Bridget what to do. 
Mending rips in Johnny's shoe, 
Running up and down the stair, 
Tying baby in her chair. 
Cutting meat, and spreading bread, 
Dishing out so much per head, 
Eating as she can, by chance, 



Bedclothes tucked o'er little toes. 
Busy, noisy, wearing life — 

Tired woman, 

Dan's wife. 

Dan reads on and falls asleep — 
See the woman softly creep; 
Baby rests at last, poor dear. 
Not a word her heart to cheer; 
Mending basket full to top, 
Stockings, shirt, and little (rock ; 
Tired eyes, and weary brain, 
Side with darting, ugly pain ; 
" Never mind, 'twill pass away," 
She must work, but never play ; 
Closed piano, unused books. 
Done the walks to cosy nooks ; 
Brightness faded out of life — 

Saddened woman, 

Dan's wife. 




Giving husband kindly glance, 
Toiling, working, busy life — 
" Smart woman, 
Dan's wife." 

Dan comes home at fall of night. 
Home so cheerful, neat and bright. 
Children meet him at the door, 
Pull him in and look him o'er, 
Wife asks how the work has gone, 
" Busy times with us at home!" 
Supper done — Dan reads with ease ; 
Happy Dan, but one to please. 
Children must be put to bed — 
All the little prayers are said, 
Little shoes are placed in rows, 



Upstairs, tossing to and fro, 
Fever holds the woman low; 
Children wander, free to play 
When and where they will to-day ; 
Bridget loiters — dinner's cold, 
Dan looks anxious, cross, and old ; 
Household screws are out of place, 
Lacking one dear, patient face ; 
Steady hands, so weak, but true, 
Hands that knew just what to do. 
Never knowing rest or play, 
Folded now and laid away ; 
Work of six in one short life- 
Shattered woman, 
Dan's wife. 

Kate T. Woods. 



RURAL SCENES. 



305 



THE ROBIN. 

THOUGH the snow is falling fast 
S|)ecking o'er his coat with white — 
'Ihough loud roars the chilly Wast, 
And the evening's lost in niglit — 

Yet from out the darkness r^;- 

dreary ! " : ' 

Cometh still that cheerful 
note ; 

Praiseful aye, and never 
weary, 

Is that little warbling throat. 

Thank him for his lesson's 

sake. 
Thank God's gentlj minstrel 

there. 
Who, when storms make others 

quai.e, 
Sings of days that brighter 

were, 

Harrison Weir. 

A LAY OF OLD TIME. 

ONE morning of the first 
sad fall, 
Poor Adam and his 
bride 
Sat in the shade of Eden's 

wall — f 

But on the outer side. 

She, blushing in her fig-leaf 
suit 
For the chaste garb of old ; 
He, sighing o'er his bitter 
fruit 
For Eden's drupes of gold. 

Behind them, smiling in the 
morn, 
Tlieir forfeit garden lay. 
Before them, wild with rock 
and thorn, 
The desert stretched away. 

They heard the air above them 
fanned, 
A light step on the sward. 
And lo ! they saw before them 
stand 
The angel of the Lord ! 

"Arise," he said, " why look behind, 

When hope is all before, 
And ])atient liand and willing mind, 

Your loss may yet restore ? 

''I leave with you a spell whose power 
Can make the desert glad, 
20 



/ 



And call around you fruit and flower 
As fair as Eden had. 

" I clothe your hands with power to lift 
The curse from off your soil ; 



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-- 



Your very doom shall seem a gift, 
Your loss a gain through toil. 

" Go, cheerful as yon humming-bees, 

To labor as to play." 
White glimmering over Eden's trees 

The angel passed away. 



306 



RURAL SCENES. 



The pilgrims of the world went forth 

Obedient to the word, 
And found wher'er they tilled the earth 

A garden of the Lord ! 

The thorn-tree cast its evil fruit 
And blushed with plum and pear ; 

And seeded grass and trodden root 
Grew sweet beneath their care. 



Mji 




^\f} *'/^»/ 




We share our primal parents' fate, 

And in our turn and day. 
Look back on Eden's sworded gate 

As sad and lost as they. 

But still for us his native skies 

The pitying Angel leaves, 
And leads through toil to Paradise 

New Adams and new Eves ! 

John G. Whittier. 



A LITTLE SONG. 

SING a song of summer time 
Coming by and by, 
Four-and-twenty blackbirds 
Sailing through the sky; 
When the season opens 

They'll all begin to sing, 
And make the finest concert 
Ever heard upon the wing. 
Blackbirds, yellowbirds, 
Robins and the wrens, 
All coming home again 
When the winter ends. 

Sing a song of summer-time, 

Coming very soon, 
With the beauty of the May, 
The glory of the June. 

Now the busy farmer toils, 

Intent on crops and money^ 
'Now the velvet bees are out 

Hunting after honey. 

Well they know the flow< ry 

nooks 

Bathed in sunshine mellow. 

Where the morning-glories are. 

And roses p'nk and yellow. 

OUR SKATER BELLE. 

ALONG the frozen lake 
she comes 
In linking crescents, 
light and fleet; 
The ice -imprisoned Undine 
hums 
A welcome to her little feet. 

I see the jaunty hat, the plume 
Swerve bird-like in the joy- 
ous gale — 
The cheeks lit up to burning bloom. 

The young eyes sparkling through the veil. 

The quick breath parts her laughing lips. 

The white neck shines through tossing curls;. 

Her vesture gently sways and dips. 
As on she speeds in shell-like whorls. 

Men stop and smile to see her go ; 

They gaze, they smile in pleased surprise ; 
They ask her name ; they long to show 

Some silent friendship in their eyes. 

She glances not ; she passes on ; 

Her steely footfall quicker rings ; 
She guesses not the benizon 

Which follows her on noiseless wings. 

Smooth be her ways, secure her tread 

Along the devious lines of life. 
From grace to grace successive led — 

A noble maiden, nobler wife! 



RURAL SCENES. 



307 



THE HOMESTEAD. 



'ROM the old squire s dwelling, gloomy and 

grand, 
Stretching away on either hand, 
Lie fields of broad and fertile land. 

Acres on acres everywhere, 

The look of smiling plenty wear. 

That tells of the master's thoughtful care. 

Here blossoms the clover, white and red. 
Here the heavy oats in a tangle spread, 
And the millet lifts her golden head ; 

And, ripening, closely neighbored by 
Fields of barley and pale white rye, 
The yellow wheat grows strong and high. 



There, miles away, like a faint blue line. 
Whenever the day is clear and fine. 
You can see the track of a river shine. 

Near it a city hides unseen, 

Shut close the verdant hills between, 

As an acorn set in its cup of green. 

And right beneath, at the foot of the 

hill, 
The little creek flows swift and still. 
That turns the wheel of Dovecote mill. 

Nearer the grand old house one sees 

Fair rows of thrifty apple-trees, 

And tall straight pears o'ertopping these. 




And near, untried through the summer days. 
Lifting their spears in the sun's fierce blaze. 
Stand the bearded ranks of the maize. 

Straying over the side of the hill, 
The sheep run to and fro at will, 
Nibbling of short green grass their fill. 

Sleek cows down the pasture take their ways. 
Or lie in the shade throuch the sultry days, 
Idle, and too full-fed to graze. 

Ah ! you might w-ander far and wide. 
Nor find a spot in the country's side 
So fair to see as our valley's pride ! 

How, just beyond, if it will not tire 
Your feet to climb this green knoll higher, 
We can see the pretty village spire ; 

And, mystic haunt of the whip-poor-wills. 
The wood, that all the background fills. 
Crowning the tops to the mill creek hills. 



And down at the foot of the garden, low, 
On a rustic bench, a pretty show. 
White bee-hives, standing in a row. 

Here trimmed in sprigs, with blossoms, each 

Of the little bees in easy reach, 

Hang the boughs of the plum and peach. 

At the garden's head are poplars tall. 

And peacocks, making their harsh, loud call, 

Sun themselves all day on the wall. 

And here you will find on every hand 
Walks and fountains and statues grand, 
And trees from many a foreign land. 

And flowers, that only.the learned can name, 
Here glow and burn like a gorgeous flame, 
Putting the poor man's blooms to shame. 

Far away from their native air 

The Norway pines their green dress wear; 

And larches swing their long, loose hair 



308 



RURAL SCENES. 



Near the porch grows the broad catalpa tree, 
And o'er it the grand wisteria 
Born to the purple of royal t)'. 

There looking the same for a weary while — 
'Twas built in this heavy, gloomy style — 
Stands the mansion, a grand old pile. 

Always closed, as it is to-day. 

And the proud squire, so the neit;hbors say, 

Frowns each unwelcome guest away. 



Who will make the deliciousest sketches, 
Which I'll place in my Theodore's desk. 

"Then how pleasant to study the iiabits 

Of the creatures we meet as we roam; 
And perhaps keep a coujjle of rabbits. 

Or some fish and a bullfinch at home ! 
The larks, when the summer has brought 'em. 

Will sing overtures quite like Mozart's, 
And the blackberries, dear, in the autumn 

Will make the most exquisite tarts. 




zr^/^ 



Though some, who knew him long ago, 
If you ask, will shake their heads of snow, 
And tell you he was not always so, 

Though grave and quiet at any time. 

But that now, his head in manhood's prime 

Is growing white 'is the winter's rime. 

Phcebe Gary. 



"O", 



A LIFE IN THE COUNTRY. 

a life in the country how joyous. 
How ineffably charming it is ; 
With no ill-mannered crowds to an- 
noy us 
Nor odious neighbors to quiz ! " 
So murmured the beautiful Harriet 

To the fondly affectionate Brown, 
As they rolled in the flame-colored chariot 

From the nasty detestable town : 
Singing, " Oh, a li "e in the country how joyous, 
How ineffably charming it is ! " 

"I shall take a portfolio quite full 
Of the sweetest conceivable glees ; 

And at times manufacture deli htful 
Little odes to the doves on the trees. 

There'll be dear little stockingless wretches 
In those hats that are so picturesque, 



" The bells of the sheep will be ringing 

All day amid sweet-scented showers, 
As we sit by some rivulet singing 

About May and her beautiful bowers. 
We'll take intellectual rambles 

In those balm-laden evenings of June, 
And say it reminds one of Campbell's 

(Or somebody's) lines to the moon." 

But these charms began shortly to pall on 

The taste of the gay Mrs. Brown ; 
She hadn't a body to call on, 

Nor a soul that could make up a gown. 
She was yearning to see her relations. 

And besides had a troublesome cough ; 
And in fact she was losing all patience, 

And exclaimed, "We must really be off. 
Though a life in the country so joyous, 

So ineffably charming it is. 

" But this morning I noticed a 1 eetle 

Crawl along on the dining-room floor. 
If we stay till the summer, the heat'll 

Infallibly bring out some more. 
Now few have a greater objection 

To beetles than Harriet Brown : 
And, my dear, I think, on reflection — 

I should like to go back to the town." 

C. S. CAL^'ERLEY. 



RURAL SCENES. 



309 



A RURAL PICTURE. 

EVEN now methinks 
Each little cottage of my native vale 
Swells out its earthen sides, upheaves its 
roof, 
Like to a hillock moved by laboring mole. 
And with green trail-weeds clambering up its 
walls, 



Of 'nighted travelers, who shall gladly bend 
Their doubtful footsteps towards the cheering 

din. 
Solemn, and grave, and cloistered, and demure 
We shall not be. Will this content ye, damsels? 

Every season 
Shall have its suited pastime ; even winter. 
In its deep noon, when mountains piled with snow 




Roses and every gay and fragrant plant 
Before my fancy stands, a fairy bower, 
Ay, and within it, too, do fairies dwell. 
Peep through its wreathed window, if indeed 
The flowers grow not too close ; and there within 
Thou'lt see some half a-dozen rosv brats. 
Eating from wooden bowls their dainty milk. 
Those are my mountain elves. Seest thou not 
Their very forms distim tlv? 

I'll gather round mv l)oard 
All that Heaven sends to me of way-worn folks, 
And noble travelers, and neighboring friends, 
Hoth yoimg and old. Within my ample hall. 
The worn-out man of arms shall o tiptoe tread, 
Tossing his grey locks from his wrinkled brow 
With cheerful freedom, as he boasts his feats 
Of days gone by. Music we'll have: and oft 
The bickering dance upon our oaken floors 
Shall, thimdering loud, strike on the distant ear 



And choked-up valleys from our mansion bar 
All entrance, and nor guest nor traveler 
Sounds at our gate ; the empty hall forsaken. 
In some warm chamber, by the crackling fire, 
We'll hold our little, snug, domestic court, 
Plying our work with song and tale between. 

To.\NN.\ Eaillie. 

PEACEFUL ENJOYMENT. 

TAKE the case of a common English land- 
landscape; — green meadows with fat cattle; 
canals, or navigable rivers; well-fenced, 
well-cultivated fields; neat, clean, scattered cot- 
tages; humble antique church, with church-yard 
elms ; and crossing hedge-rows, all seen under 
bright skies, and in good weather ; there is much 
beauty, as every one will acknowledge, in such a 
scene. 



310 



RURAL SCENES. 



But in what does the Leauty consist? Not, cer- 
tainly, in the mere mixture of colors and forms ; 
fur colors more pleasing, and lines more graceful 
(according to any theory of grace that may be 
preferred), might be spread upon a board, or a 
painter's pallet, without engaging the eye to a 
second glance, or raising the least emotion in the 
mind : but in the picture of human happiness that 



G 




A HARVEST HYMN. 

REAT GOD ! our heart-felt thanks to Thee } 
We feel thy presence everywhere ; 
And pray, that we may ever be 
Thus objects of thy guardian care. 

We sowed ! — by Thee our work was seen, 
And blessed ; and instantly went forth 

Thy mandate ; and in living green 
Soon smiled the fair and fruitful 
earth. 



We toiled ! — and Thou didst note our 
toil; 
And gav'st the sunshine and the 
rain. 
Till ripened on the teeming soil 
The fragrant grass, and golden grain. 

And now, we reap ! — and oh, our God ! 
From this, the earth's unbounded 
floor. 
We send our song of thanks abroad. 
And pray Thee, bless our hoarded 
store ! 

W. D. Gallagher. 



A 



is presented to our imaginations and affections — 
and in the visible and unequivocal signs of com- 
fort, and cheerful and peaceful enjoyment — and of 
that secure and successful industry that insures its 
continuance — and of the piety by which it is ex- 
alted — and of the simplicity by which it is con- 
trasted with the guilt and the fever of a city life — 
in the images of health and temperance and plenty 
whicii it exhibits to every eye, and in the glimpses 
which it affords to warmer imaginations of those 
primitive or fabulous times when man was uncor- 
rupted by luxury and ambition ; and of those hum- 
ble retreats in which we still delight to imagine 
that love and philosophy may find an unpolluted 
asylum. 

Lord Jeffrey. 



JVIY LITTLE BROOK. 

LITTLE brook half hidden 

under trees — 

It gives me peace and rest the 

whole day through. 

Having this little brook to wander to, 

So cool, so clear, with grassy banks 

and these 
Sweet miracles of violets 'neath the 
trees. 

There is a rock where I can sit and 
see 
The crystal ripples dancing down and 

racing. 
Like children round the stones each 
other chasing, 
Then for a moment pausing seriously 
In a dark mimic pond that I can see. 

The rock is rough and broken on its edge 
With jutting corners, but there come alway 
The merry ripples with their tiny spray. 
To press it ere they flow on by the sedge. 
They never fail the old rock's broken edge. 

I sit here by the stream in full content. 
It is so constant, and I lay my hand 
Down through its waters on the golden sand. 
And watch the sunshine with its shallows blent. 
Watch it with ever-growing, sweet content. 

And yet the waves they come I know not 
whence, 
And they flow on from me I know not whither, 



RURAL SCENES. 



311 



:Sometimes my fancy pines to follow thither ; 
But I can only see the forest dense — 
Still tlie brook flows I know not where nor 
whence. 

Who knows from what far hills it threads its 
way, 
What mysteries of cliffs and pines and skies 
O'erhang the spot where its first fountains rise, 
What shy wild deer may stoop to taste its spray, 
Through what rare regions my brook threads 
its way. 

I only see the trees above, below, 
Who knows through what fair lands the stream 

may run, 
What children play, what homes are built thereon. 
Through what great cities broadening it may 

go?— 
I only see the trees above, below. 

What do I care? I pause with full content. 
My little brook beside the rock to see. 
What it has been or what it yet may be, 
Naught matters, I but know that it is sent 
Flowing my way, and I am well content. 

Mary B. Branch. 

CONRAD IN THE CITY. 

FROM " TWIN SOULS : A PSYCHIC ROMANCE." 




.\CK in the noisy, man-made town, 
Walls high and blank, smoke-fouled 

and brown, 
K factory whose clattering wheels 
With rattling speed are crazed and 
hot, 
Where life its best and worst reveals. 
Where money is and man is «<?/— 
There was but little to impart 
Content to Conrad's harassed heart. 
He missed the ocean, missed the hills, 
Woods, meadows, vales and romping rills. 

A man within the city pent, 

Whose mornings, noons and nights are spent 

As if in prison serving time 

To expiate some flagrant crime. 

Is blind to nature's changing scene, 

Earth, sky and clouds that intervene, 

And all the rich and floral blooms 

That dress the fields and breathe perfumes. 

His landscape is the dusty street. 
The back yard is his cool retreat, 
His trees are poles with wires strung, 
His birds are poultry, old and young. 
His bower where twilight lovers hide 
Is in an alley five feet wide. 
His charming rest in shaded gullies 
Is under awnings worked with pulleys. 



His brook, whose waters leap and sputter, 
Is found in every city gutter, 
And all his wide and open heaven 
Is in a room ten feet by seven. 

There in the country prospects fair. 
Here in the city smudgy air ; 
There, grand old hills that prop the sky, 
Here, buildings thirteen stories high ; 
There, purling streams that sing and prattle. 
Here, draymen's carts that jolt and rattle ; 
There nature's hues of green and gold. 
Here, whitewash, stucco, paint and mould 
There, growing shrubs with blossoms brigh:. 
Here, iron lamp-posts bolt upright ; 
There, waving tops of elm and oak. 
Here, chimneys tops begrimed with smoke ^ 
There, gurgling fountains on the lawn. 
Here, draughts from rusty faucets drawn; 
There, bird-songs heard on mossy banks, 
Here, music played by organ cranks ; 
There, odors of the pink and rose, 
Here, odors — different from those; 
There, valleys, slopes and verdant plains, 
Rare berries, vines and billowy grains ; 
Here, markets, shops and dirty stables, 
Wheelbarrows, trolleys and car-cables ! 

Strange contrast now the seething town 
To mountain glen with mossy down ; 
Yet where is marked the path of duty. 
There all things wear the garb of beauty. 
Where noble aims employ the hours. 
Dull workshops turn to floral bowers. 
Life's routine has its sanctities. 
And labor's blows are symphonies. 

Now to the anvil ! — Conrad thought — 
Life is a thing that must be wrought, 
Must be hard hammered, must be moulded. 
Its new and living shapes unfolded. 
We cannot choose our fields, our sky. 
Nor swerve the fate that shall deny 
Our wish to find unvexed content. 
And build our own environment. 
I think, I guess — but do not know : 
Child-like, I trust the winds that blow, 
And if I'm blown to unknown strand. 
It will be wiser than I planned : 
The harbor waits, I know not where — 
My home-hound bark will anchor there. 
And gain, through harmless storms or calms. 
The isles of spices and of palms. 

Henry Davenport. 

THE REAPERS. 

I SIGH for the time 
When the reapers at morn 
Come down from the hill 
At the sound of the horn ; 
Or when dragging the rake, 
I followed them out 



312 



RURAL SCENES. 



While tliey tossed the light sheaves 

With their laughter about; 
Through the field, with boy-daring. 

Barefooted I ran ; 
But the stubbles loreshadowed 

The patii of the man. 
Now the uplands of life 

Lie all barren of sheaves — 
While my footsteps are loiid 

In the withering leaves. 

T. Buchanan Read. 




THE DRUDGE. 

POOR drudge of the city ! 
How happy he feels, 
With burrs on his legs 
And the grass at his heels ; 
No dodger behind, 

His bandannas to share, 
No constable grumbling — 
" You cannot go there !" 

O. W. Holmes. 

THE HAYMAKER'S ROUNDELAY. 

DRIFTED snow no more is seen, 
Blust'ring winter passes by; 
Merry spring comes clad in green. 
While woodlands pour their melody: 
I hear him ! hark ! 
The merry lark 



Calls us to the new-mown hay, 
Piping to our roundelay. 

When the golden sun appears. 

On the mountain's surly brow, 
When his jolly beams he rears, 
Darting joy, behold them now: 
Then, then, oh hark! 
The merry lark 
Calls us to the new-mown hay. 
Piping to our roundelay. 

What are honors ? What's a court? 

Calm content is worth them all; 
Our lionor is to drive the cart. 

Our brightest court the harvest hall : 
But now — oh hark I 
The merry lark 
Calls us to the new-mown hay. 
Piping to our roundelay. 

TRUE RICHES. 

THANKS to my humble nature, while I've 
limbs, 
Tastes, senses, I'm determined to be rich : 
So long as that fine alchymist, the sun. 
Can transmute into gold whate'er I like 
On earth, in air, or water ! while a banquet 
Is ever spread before me, in a hall 
Of heaven's own building, perfumed with the 

breath 
Of nature s self, and ringing to the sounds 
Of her own choristers. 

J. N. Barker. 



o 



THE COUNTRY MAID. 

H fairest of the rural maids ! 
Thy birth was in the forest shades; 
Green boughs, and glimpses of the sky. 
Were all that met thy infant eye. 

Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child. 
Were ever in the sylvan wild ; 
And all the beauty of the place 
Is in thy heart and on thy face. 

The twilight of the trees and rocks 
Is in the light shade of thy locks ; 
Thy step is as the wind that weaves 
Its playful way among the leaves. 

Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene 
And silent waters heaven is seen ; 
Their lashes are the herbs that look 
On their young figures in the brook. 

The forest depths, by foot unpressed. 
Are not more sinless than thy breast ; 
The holy peace, that fills the air 
Of those calm solitudes, is there. 

W. C. Bryant. 




THE RURAL MAID. 



313 



^14 



RURAL SCENES. 



SELLING THE FARM. 



WELL, why don't you say it, husband ? 1 
know what you want to say ; 
You want to talk about selling the farm, 
for the mortgage we cannot pay. 
I know that we cannot pay it ; 1 have thought of 

it o'er and o'er; 
For the wheat has failed on the corner lot, where 
wheat never failed before. 

And everything here's gone backward since Willie 
went off to sea 



I thought that the merciful Father would somehow 
care lor ihe lad, 

Because he was ir> ing to better the past, and be- 
cause lie was all we had. 

But now 1 am well-nigh hopeless, since the hope 
for my boy has fled. 

For selling the farm means giving him up, and 
knowing for sure he's dead. 

O Thomas! ho,, can we leave it, the home we 
have always known ? 




\ 



To pay the mortgage and save the farm, the home- 
stead, for you and me. 

I know it was best to give it ; it was right that the 
debts be paid — ■ 

The debts that our thoughtless Willie, in the hours 
of his weakness, made ; 

And Will would have paid it fairly, you know it as 

well as L 
If the ship had not gone down that night, when 

no other ship was nigh. 
But, somehow, I didn't quit hoping, and ever I've 

tried to pray— 
(But I know if our Will was alive on earth, he'd 

surely been here to-day). 



We won it away from the forest, and made it so 

much our own 
First day we kept house together was the day that 

you brought me here ; 
And no other place in the wide, wide world will 

ever be half so dear. 

Of course you remember it, Thomas — I need not 

ask you. I know, 
For this is the month, and this is the day — it was 

twenty-six years ago. 
And don't you remember it, Thomas, the winter 

the barn was made, 
How we were so proud and happy, for all our 

debts were paid ? 



RURAL SCENES. 



315 



The crops were good that summer, and everything 

worked like a charm, 
And we felt so rich and contented, to think we 

had paid for the farm. 
And now to think we must leave it, when here I 

was hoping to die ; 
It seems as if it was breaking my heart, but the 

fount of my tears is dry. 

I'here's a man up there in the village that's want- 
ing to buy, you say ; 

Well, Thomas, he'll have to have it ; but why does 
he come to day ? 

But there, it is wrong to grieve you, for you have 
enough to bear. 

And in all of our petty trouble, you always have 
borne your share ; 

I am but a sorry helpmeet since I have so childish 
grown : 

There, there, go on to the village ; let me have it 
out alone. 

Poor Thomas, he's growing feeble, he steps so 

weary and slow : 
There is not much in his looks to-day like twenty- 

si.x years ago. 
But I know that his heart is youthful as it was 

when we first were wed, 
And his love is as strong as ever for me, and for 

Willie, our boy that's dead. 
Oh, Willie, my baby Willie ! I shall never see 

him more ; 
I never shall hear his footsteps as he comes through 

the open door. 

" How are you, dear little mother?" were always 

the words he'd say ; 
It seems as if I would give the world to hear it 

again to-day. 
I knew when my boy was coming, be it ever so 

early or late. 
He was always a whistling " Home, Sweet Home," 

as he opened the garden gate. 

And many and many a moment, since the night 

that the ship went down. 
Have I started up at a whistle like his, out there 

on the road from town ; 
And in many a night of sorrow, in the silence, 

earlv and late. 
Have I held my breath at a footstep that seemed 

to pause at the gate. 

I hope that he cannot see us, wherever his soul 

may be ; 
It would grieve him to know the trouble that's 

come to father and me. 
Out there is the tree he planted the day he was 

twelve years old ; 
The sunlight is glinting through it, and turning 

its leaves to gold ; 



And often, when I was lonely, and no one near at 

hand, 
I have talked to it hours together, as if it could 

understand ; 
And sometimes I used to fancy, whenever I spoke 

of my boy. 
It was waving its leaves together, like clapping its 

hands for joy. 

It may be the man that will own it, that's coming 

to buy to-day. 
Will be chopping it down, or digging it up, and 

burning it out of the way. 
And there are the pansies yonder, and the roses he 

helped to tend : 
Why, every bush on the dear old place is as dear 

as a tried old friend. 

And now we must go and leave them — but there 

they come from town ; 
I haven't had time to smooth my hair, or even to 

change my gown. 
I can see them both quite plainly, although it is 

getting late. 
And the stranger's a whistling '• Home, Sweet 

Home," as he comes up from the gate. 
I'll go out into the kitchen now, for I don't want 

to look on his face : 
What right has he to be whistling that, unless he 

has bought the place ? 

Why, can that be Thomas coming ? He usually 

steps so slow ; 
There's something come into his footsteps like 

twenty-six years ago ; 
There's something that sounds like gladness, and 

the man that he used to be 
Before our Willie went out from home to die on 

the stormy sea. 

What, Thomas ! Why are you smiling and hold- 
ing my hands so tight ? 

And why don' t you tell me quickly — must we go 
from the farm to-night? 

What's that? '-You bring me tidings, and tidings 
of wonderful joy ? 

It cannot be very joyous, unless it is news of my 
boy. 

O, Thomas ! You cannot mean it ! Here, let me 
look in your face ; 

Now, tell me again — it is Willie that's wanting to 
buy the place?" 

Beth Day. 

TOWN AND COUNTRY. 

God made the country and man made the town ; 
What wonder then, that health and virtue, gifts 
That can alone make sweet the bitter draught 
That life holds out to all, should most abound 
And least be threatened in the fields and groves? 

William Cowper. 



316 



RURAL SCENES. 




T 



HE harvest dawn is near. 
The year delays not long ; 

And he who sows with many a tear 
Shall reap with many a song. 

Sad to his toil he goes, 

His seed with weeping leaves; 

But he shall come at tw light's close. 
And bring his golden sheaves. 

THE PUMPKIN. 



O GREENLY and fair in the lands of the sun, 
The vines of the gourd and the rich melon 
run, 
And the rock and the tree and the cottage enfold, 
With broad leaves all greenness and blossoms all 

gold, 
Li'ce that which o'er Nineveh's ijrophet once grew. 
While he waited to know that his warning was true, 
And longed for the storm-cloud, and listened in 

vain 
For the rush of the whirlwind and red-fire rain. 

On the banks of the Xenil, the dark Spanish maiden 
Comes up with the fruit of the tangled vine laden ; 
And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to behold 
Through orange-leaves shining the broad spheres 

of gold ; 
Yet with dearer delight from his home in the 

North, 
On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looks forth, 
Wiiere crook-necks are coiling and yellow fruit 

shines, 
And the sun of September melts down on his vines. 

Ah ! on Thanksgiving Day, when from East and 

from West, 
From North and from South come the pilgrim and 

guest, 



When the grey-haired New Englander sees round 

his board 
The old broken links of affection restored. 
When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once 

more. 
And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled 

before, 
What moistens the lip, and what brightens the eye? 
What calls back the past, like the rich pumpkin-pie? 

O, fruit loved of boyhood! the old days recalling; 
When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts 

were falling ! 
When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin, 
Glaring out through the dark with a candle w ithin ! 
When we laughed round the corn heap, with hearts 

all in tune, 
Our chair a broad pumpkin, our lantern the moon. 
Telling tales of the fairy who traveled like steam 
In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her 

team ! 

Then thanks for thy present ! — none sweeter or 

better 
E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter ! 
Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine. 
Brighter eyes never watched o'er its baking than 

thine ! 



RURAL SCENES. 



317 



And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to 

express, 
Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be 

less, 
Tliat the days of th\- lot may be lengthened below, 



And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine 

grow. 
And thy life Ije as sweet, and its last sunset sky 
Gold-tinted and fair as thine own pumpkin-pie ! 

J. G. Whittier. 



BLOSSOM-TIME. 



T 



HE^RE'S a wedding in the orcliard, dear, 

I know It l>y tiie flowers ; 
They're wreatlied on every bough and branch. 

Or falling down in shouers. 

The air is in a mist, I think, 

And scarce knows which to be — 

Whether all fragrance, clinging close, 
Or bird-song, wild and free. 



And though I saw no wedding-guest, 
Nor groom, nor gentle bride, 

I kno.v ihat holy things were asked, 
And holy love replied. 




And countless wedding-jewels shine, 

And golden gifts of grace ; 
I never saw such wealth o: sun 

In any shady place. 

It seemed I heard the flutt'ring robes 

Of maidens clad in white. 
The clasping of a thousand hands 

In tenderest delight : 

While whispers rang among the boughs 

Of promises and praise; 
And playful, loving messages 

Sped through the leaf lit ways. 

And just beyond the wreathed aisles 

Thiit end against the blue, 
The raiment t)f the wedding-choir 

And priest came shining through. 



And something through the sunlight said: 

" Let all who love be blest ! 
The earth is wedded to the spring — 

And God, He knoweth best " 

Mary E. Dodge. 

COUNTRY LIFE. 

THE merchant tempts me with his gold, 
The gold he worships night and day; 
He bids me leave this dreary wold. 
And come into the city gay. 
I will not go ; I won't be sold ; 

I scorn his pleasures and array; 
I'll rather bear the country's cold. 
Than from its freedom walk away. 

What is to me the city's pride ? 

The haunt of luxury and pleasure ; 
Those fields and hills, this wild brookside, 

To me are better beyond measure. 
'Mid country scenes I'll still abide ; 

With country life and country leisure, 
Content, whatever mav betide, 

With common good instead of treasure. 



318 



RURAL SCENES. 




THE OLD MILL. 

ESIDE the stream the grist-mill stands, 
With bending roof and leaning wall ; 
So old, that when the winds are wild, 

The miller trembles lest it fall ; 
And yet it baffles wind and rain, 
Our brave old mill, and will again. 

Its dam is steep, and hung with weeds; 

The gates are up, the waters pour. 
And tread the old wheels slippery round, 

The lowest step forever o'er. 
Methinks they fume, and chafe with ire, 
Because they cannot climb it higher. 

From morn to night in autumn time. 

When harvests fill the neighboring plains. 

Up to the mill the farmers drive. 
And back anon with loaded wains; 

And when the children come from school 

They stop and watch its foamy pool. 

The mill inside is small and dark ; 

But peeping in the open door 
You see the miller flitting round. 

The dusty bags along the floor, 
The whirling shaft, the clattering spout. 
And the yellow meal a-pouring out ! 

All day the meal is floating there. 
Rising and falling in the breeze; 

And when the sunlight strikes its mist 
It glitters like a swarm of bees ; 

Or like the cloud of smoke and light 

Above a blacksmith's forge at night. 

I love our pleasant, quaint old mill. 
It still recalls my boyish prime ; 

'Tis changed since then, and so am I, 
We both have known the touch of time; 

The mill is crumbling in decay, 

And I — my hair is early gray. 

I stand beside the stream of life, 

And watch the current sweep along ; 

And when the flood-gates of my heart 
Are raised, it turns the wheel of song; 

But scant, as yet, the harvest brought 

From out the golden fields of thought. 

R. H. Stoddard. 

BACK TO THE FARM. 

B.\CK to the farm these autumn days, 
A-swinging and a-swinging, 
A fellow's brooding fancy strays, 
A-swinging and a-swinging! 
The frost that makes the pumpkin sweet — 
You feel it in the city street ; 



The cobwebs hanging o'er the way 
Are spiders' poems to the day ; 
The cricket's palpitating song 
Is but the echo of a gong 
The Liliputians might have beat 
In sounding some ill-starred retreat; 
The ripened cymlings, round and fair, 
Seem fairies' skulls a-bleaching there ; 
And where the apples to the gaze 
Make pimples on the orchard's face, 
A haws hangs in the upper sea — 
A loosened skiff that lazily 
Is swinging and a-swinging. 

Back to the old plantation days, 

A-swinging and a-swinging, 
O'er hazy hills and browning braes, 

A-swinging and a-swinging ! 
The geese file through the pasture slow. 
Like mimic cotton dra\s that go 
Lip city streets to where are furled 
In bales the comforts of a world ! 
The old folks putter round the house — 
The father turning in th.e ■ ows 
To graze where rye among the stalks 
Is green as Call's enamored walks; 
And mother sings an old-time hymn 
In rooms where hang on walls the dim 
And pictured faces of the loved. 
Who've died or from the home nest roved, 
And dear old folks ! there's one at least 
Who through the years has never ceased 
To long to be with you again. 
Where dear old days through autumn's reign. 

Go swinging and a-swinging ! 

Will T. Hale. 

GREEN RIVER. 

WHEN breezes are soft and skies are fair, 
I steal an hour from study and care, 
And hie me away to the woodland scene,. 
Where wanders the stream with waters of green,. 
As if the bright fringe of herbs on its brink 
Had given their stain to the wave they drink ; 
And they, whose meadows it murmurs through,. 
Have named the stream from its own fair hue. 

Though forced to drudge for the dregs of men,. 

And scrawl strange words with the barbarous pen,. 

And mingle among the jostling crowd. 

Where the sons of strife are subtle and loud — 

I often come to this quiet place. 

To breathe the airs that ruffle thy face. 

And gaze upon thee in silent dream. 

For in thy lonely and lovely stream 

An image of that calm life appears 

That won my heart in my greener years. 

W. C. Bryant.. 



RURAL SCENES. 



31» 



THE HAYMAKERS. 

DOWN on the Merriniac River, 
While the autumn grass is green, 
Oh, there the jolly hay men 
In their gundalows are seen ; 
Floating down, as ebbs the current, 
And the dawn leads on the day, 
With their scythes and rakes all ready. 
To gather in the hay. 

The good wife, up the river, 

Has made the oven hot. 
And with plenty of pandowdy 

Has filled her earthen pot. 
Their long oars sweep them onward. 

As the rii)ples round them play, 
And the jolly hay men drift along 

To make the meadow hay. 



THE SONG OF 



THE MOWERS. 

^a\', ere the sunrise hath 



WE are up and av 
kissed 
In the valley below us, that ocean of 
mist. 
Ere the tops of the hills have grown bright in its 

ray. 
With our scythes on our shoulders, we're up and 
away. 

The freshness and beauty of morning are ours. 
The music of birds and tlie fragrance oi" flowers;. 
And our trail is the first that is seen in the dew, 
As our pathway through orchards and lanes we- 
pursue. 

Hurrah! here we are! now together, as one. 
Give your scythes to the sward, and press steadily 




7 K 



At the Ijank-side then they moor her, 

Where the sluggish waters run, 
By the shallow creek's low edges, 

Beneath the fervid sun — 
And all day long the toilers 

Mow their swaths, and da\- by day, 
You can see their scythe blades flashing 

At the cutting of the hay. 

When the meadow-birds are flying, 

Then down go scythe and rake, 
And right and left their scattering shots 

The sleeping echoes wake — 
For silent spreads the broad expanse. 

To the sand-hills far away, 
And thus they change their work for sport. 

At making of the hay. 

When the gundalows are loaded — 

Gunwales to the water's brim — 
With their little square-sails set atop. 

Up the river how they swim ! 
At home, beside the fire, by night. 

While the children round them play. 
What tales the jolly hay-men tell 

Of getting in the hay ! 

George Lunt. 



Ail together, as one, o'er the stubble we pass. 
With a swing and a ring of the steel through the 
grass. 

Before us the clover stands thickly and tall, 
At our left ic is piled in a verdurous wall ; 
And never hreathed monarch more fragrant per- 
fumes 
Than the sunshine distills from its leaves and its 

blooms. 
Invisible censers around u; are swung, 
And anthems exultant from tree-tops are flung; 
And 'mid fragrance and nuisicand beauty we share 
The jubilant life of the earth and the air. 

Let the priest and the lawyer grow pale in their 

shades. 
And the slender young clerk keep his skin like a 

maid's ; 
We care not, though dear Mother Nature may 

bronze 
Our cheeks with the kiss that she gives to her sons. 

Then cheerly, boys, cheerly ! together, as one. 
Give your scythes to the sward, and press steadilv on ; 
All together, as one, o'er the stubble we pass. 
With a swing and a ring of the steel through the 
grass. W. H. Burleigh 



320 



RURAL SCENES. 




Some peach-trees, with unfruitful boughs, 

A well, with weeds to hide it ; 
No flowers, or only such as rise 
Self-sown, poor things, which all despise. 

Dear country home ! Can I forget 

The least of thy sweet trifles ? 
The u indow-vines that < Lmiber yet. 

Whose bloom the bee still rifles? 
The roadside blacklierries, growing ripe. 
And in the woods the Indian Pipe? 

Happy the man wlio tills his field. 

Content with rustic labor; 
Earth does to him her fulness yield. 

Hap what may to his neighbor. 

THE 

FAR back in the ages. 
The plouyh with wreaths was crowned; 
The hands of kings and sages 
Entwined the cha])let round ; 
Till men of spoil disdained the toil 

By which the world was nourished. 
And dews of blood enriched the soil 

Where green their laurels flourished ; 
Now the world her fault repairs — 
The guilt that stains her story; 
And weeps her crimes amid the cares 
That formed her earliest glory. 



o 



WHEN I am safe in my sylvan home, 
1 mock at the pride of Greece and Rome ! 
^ And when I am stretched beneath the 



pmes 
When the evening star so holy .shines. 



THE COUNTRY LIFE. 

OT what we would, but what we must. 

Makes up the sum of living ; 
Heaven is both more and less than just 

In taking and in giving. 
Swords cleave to hands that sought the plough, 
And laurels miss the soldier's brow. 
Me, whom the city holds, whose feet 

Have worn its stony highways. 
Familiar with its loneliest street — 

Its wa)s were never my ways. 
My cradle was beside the sea. 
And there, I hope, my grave will be. 
Old homestead ! In that old gray town. 

Thy vane is seaward blowing. 
The slip of garden stretches down 

To where the tide is flowing; 
Below they lie, their sails all furled, 
The ships that go about the world. 
Dearer that little country house. 

Inland, with pines beside it ; 

Well days, sound nights, oh, can there be 
A life more rational and free ? 
Dear country life of child and man ! 

For both the best, the strongest. 
That with the earliest race began. 

And hast outlived the longest ; 
Their cities perished long ago ; 
Who the first farmers were we know. 
Perhaps our Babels, too, will fall ; 

If so, no lamentations, 
For Mother Earth will shelter all, 

And feed the unborn nations ; 
Yes, and the swords that menace now, 
Will then be beaten to the plough. 
I R. H. Stoddard. 

PLOUGH. 

The proud throne shall crumble, 

The diadem shall wane. 
The tribes of earth shall humble 

The pride of those who reign ; 
And war shall lay his pom]i away; — 

The fame that heroes cherish. 
The glory earned in deadly fray 

Shall fade, decay, and perish. 
Honor waits, o'er all the earth. 

Through endless generations. 
The art that calls her har\ ests forth, 

And feeds the expectant nations. 

W. C. Bryant. 
THE 5ACRED WOODS. 

I laugh at the lore and pride of inan, 
At the Sophist's schools, and the learned clan; 
For what are they all in their high conceit, 
When man in the Imsh with God may meet? 

R W. Emfkson. 



RURAL SCENES. 



321 



W 



THE MOWERS. 

HERE mountains round a lonely dale 
Our cottage-roof enclose, 
Come night or morn, the hissing pail 
With yellow cream o'erflows ; 
And roused at break of day from sleep, 

And cheerly trudging hither — 
A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep. 
We mow the grass together. 

The fog drawn up the mountain-side 

And scattered flake by flake, 
The chasm of blue above grows wide, 

And richer blue the lake ; 
Gay sunlights o'er the hillocks creep, 

And join for golden weather — 
A scythe-sweejj, and a scythe-sweep. 

We mow the dale together. 



To-morrow's sky may laugh or weep. 
To Heaven we leave it, whether — 

A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep. 
We've done our task together. 

William Allingham. 

THE CORNFIELD. 

SOON as the morning trembles o'er the sky, 
And, unperceived, unfolds the spreading day, 
Before the ripened field the reajiers stand, 
At once they stoop and swell the lusty sheaves. 

While through their cheerful band the rural talk. 
The rural scandal, and the rural jest, 
Fly harmless, to deceive the tedious time, 
And steal unfelt the sultry hours away. 

Tames Thomson. 




.^ 



The good-wife stirs at five, we know. 

And master soon comes round. 
And many swaths must lie a-row 

Ere break fast -horn shall sound ; 
The clover and the florin deep, 

The grass of silvery feather — 
A scythe-sweep and a scythe-sweep 

We mow the dale together. 

The noon-tide brings its welcome rest 

Our toil-wet brows to dry; 
Anew with merry stave and jest 

The shrieking hone we ply. 
White falls the brook from steep to steep 

Among the purple heather — 
A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep. 

We mow the dale together. 

For dial, see, our shadows turn; 

Low lies the stately mead ; 
A scythe, an hour-glass, and an urn — 

All flesh is grass, we read. 
21 



MY HEAVEN. 

RICH, though poor ! 
My low-roofed cottage is this hour a heaven. 
Music is in it— and the song she sings. 
That sweet-voiced wife of mine, arrests the ear 
Of my young child awake ui-ion her knee 
And with his calm eye on his master's face 
My noble hound lies couciiant. 

N. P. Willis. 



T 



CHILDREN AND FLOWERS. 

IE birds begin to sing— they utter a few 
rapturous notes, and then wait for an answer 
in the silent woods. Those green-coated 
musicians, the frogs, make holiday in the 
neighboring marshes. They, too, belong to the 
orchestra of nature ; whose vast theatre is again 
opened, though the doors have been so long 
bolted with icicles, and the scenery hung with 
snow and frost, like cobwebs. This is the pre- 



322 



RURAL SCENES. 



lude, which announces the rising of the broad 
green curtain. Already the grass shoots forth. 
The waters leap with thrilling pulse through the 
veins of the earth ; the sap through the veins of 
the plants and trees ; and the blood through the 
veins of man. 

What a thrill of delight in springtime ! What 
a joy in being and moving ! Men are at work in 
gardens; and in the air there is an odor of the 
fresh earth. The leaf-buds begin to swell and 
blush. The white blossoms of the cherry hang 
upon the boughs like snow-flakes, and ere long our 
next-door neighbors will be completely hidden 
from us by the dense green foliage. The May 
flowers open their soft blue eyes. Children are 
let loose in the fields and gardens. They hold 
butter-cups under each other's chins, to see if they 
love butter. And the little girls adorn themselves 



with chains and curls of dandelions ; pull out the 
yellow leaves to see if the schoolboy loves them, 
and blow the down from the leafless stalk, to find 
out if their mothers want them at home. 

And at night so cloudless and so still ! Not a 
voice of living thing — not a whisper of leaf or 
waving bough — not a breath of wind — not a sound 
upon the earth nor in the air ! And overhead 
bends the blue sky, dewy and soft, and radiant 
with innumerable stars, like the inverted bell of 
some blue flower, sprinkled with golden dust, and 
breathing fragrance. Or if the heavens are over- 
cast, it is no wild storm of wind and rain ; but 
clouds that melt and fall in showers. One does 
not wish to sleep ; but lies awake to hear the 
pleasant sound of the dropping rain. 

H. W. Longfellow. 




THE WORLD'S WORKERS 



OR 



THE NOBILITY OF LABOR. 




But where the incessant din 
Of iron hands, and roars of brazen throats, 
Join their unmingled notes, 

While the long summer day is pouring in. 
Till day is gone, and darkness doth begin. 
Dream I — as in the corner where I lie, 
On wintry niglits, just covered from the sky ! — 
Such is my fate — and, barren though it seem. 
Yet, thou blind, soulless scorner, yet I dream ! 



THE DREAMER. 

OT in the laughing bowers. 
Where by green swinging elms a pleasant shade 
At summer's noon is made. 

And where swift-footed hours 

Steal the rich breath of enamored flowers. 
Dream I. Nor where the golden glories be. 
At sunset, laving o'er the flowing sea ; 
And to pure eyes the faculty is given 
To trace a smooth ascent from earth to heaven ! 

Not on a couch of ease. 
With all the appliances of joy at hand — 
Soft light, sweet fragrance, beauty at command ; 

Viands that might a godlike palate please, 

And music's soul-creative ecstasies, 
Dream I. Nor gloating o'er a wide estate. 
Till the full, self-complacent heart elate. 
Well satisfied with bliss of mortal birth. 
Sighs for an immortality on earth ! 

And yet I dream — 
Dream of a sleep where dreams no more shall 

come. 
My last, my first, my only welcome home ! 
Rest, unbeheld since life's beginning stage. 
Sole remnant of my glorious heritage, 
Unalienable, I shall find thee yet, 
And in thy soft embrace the past forget. 

Thus do I dream ! 



PRESS ON. 



PRESS on ! there's no such word as fail; 
Press nobly on ! the goal is near ; 
Ascend the mountain ! breast the gale ! 
Look upward, onward — never fear ! 
Wliy shouldst thou faint? Heaven smiles above 

Though storm and vapor intervene ; 

That sun shines on, whose name is love, 

Serenely o'er life's shadowed scene. 

Press on / surmount the rocky steeps. 

Climb boldly o'er the torrents' arch ; 
He fails alone who feebly creeps ; 

He wins who dares the hero's march. 
Be thou a hero ! let thy might 

Tramp on eternal snows its way. 
And through the el)on walls of night, 

Hew down a passage unto day. 



Press on ! if once, and twice thy feet 

Slip back and stumble, harder try ; 
From him who never dreads to meet 

Danger and death, they're sure to fly. 
To coward ranks the bullet speeds ; 

While on their breasts who never quail. 
Gleams, guardian of chivalric deeds. 

Bright courage, like a coat of mail. 

Press on ! if fortune jilay thee false 

To-day, to-morrow she'll be true; 
Whom now she sinks, she now exalts, 

Taking old gifts and granting new. 
The wisdom of the present hour 

Makes up for follies past and gone; 
To weakness strength succeeds, and power 

From frailty springs ; — Press on ! Press on ! 

323 



324 



THE WORLD'S WORKERS. 



Press on .' what though upon the ground 

Thy love has been poured out like rain? 
That happiness is always found 

The sweetest that is born of pain. 
Oft mid the forest's deepest glooms, 

A bird sings from some blighted tree ; 
And in the dreariest desert blooms 

A never-dying rose for thee. 

Therefore, press on ! and reach the goal, 

And gain the prize, and wear the crown ; 
Faint not I for to the steadfast soul, 

Come wealth and honor and renown. 
To thine own self be true, and keep 

Thy mind from sloth, thy heart from soil ; 
Press on ! and thou shalt surely reap 

A heavenly harvest for thy toil. 

Park Benjamin. 



I 



DO SOMETHING. 

F the world seems cold to you. 
Kindle fires to warm it ! 
Let their comfort hide from you 
Winters that deform it. 



Hearts as frozen as your own 

To that radiance gather ; 
You will soon forget to moan, 

' ' Ah ! the cheerless weather. ' ' 

If the world's a vale of tears. 
Smile till rainbows span it ; 

Breathe the love that life endears — 
Clear from clouds to fan it. 

Of our gladness lend a gleam 

Unto souls that shiver ; 
Show them how dark sorrow's stream 

Blends with hope's bright river ! 

HOW CYRUS LAID THE CABLE. 



c 



OME, listen to my song, it is no silly fable, 
'Tis all about the mighty cord they call the 
Atlantic Cable. 

Bold Cyrus Field, said he, " I have a pretty notion 
That I could run a telegraph across the Atlantic 
Ocean." 

And all the people laughed and said they'd like to 

see him do it ; 
He might get " half seas over," but never would 

go through it. 

To carry out his foolish plan he never would be 
able ; 

He might as well go hang himself with his Atlan- 
tic Cable. 

But Cyrus was a valiant man, a fellow of decision, 
And heeded not their careless words, their laughter 
and derision. 



Twice did his bravest efforts fail, yet his mind was 

stable ; 
He wasn't the man to break his heart because he 

broke his cable. 

"Once more, my gallant boys," said he; "three 

times," — you know the fable. 
"I'll make it thirty," muttered he, " but what I'll 

lay the cable." 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! again hurrah I what means this 
great commotion ? 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! The cable's laid across the At- 
lantic Ocean. 

Loud ring the bells, for flashing through ten 

thousand leagues of water. 
Old Mother England's benison salutes her eldest 

daughter. 

O'er all the land the tidings spread, and soon in 
every nation, 

They'll hear about the cable with profoundest ad- 
miration. 

Long live the gallant souls who helped our noble 
C\ rus ; 

And may their courage, faith, and zeal, with emu- 
lation fire us. 

And may we honor, evermore, the manly, bold 

and stable. 
And tell our sons, to make them brave, how Cyrus 

laid the Cable. 

LITTLE BY LITTLE. 

ONE step and then another, and the longest 
walk is ended ; 
One stitch and then another, and the 
widest rent is mended ; 
One brick upon another, and the highest wall is 

made ; 
One flake upon another, and the deepest snow is 
laid. 

Then do not frown nor murmur at the work you 

have to do, 
Or say that such a mighty task you never can get 

through ; 
But just endeavor, day by day, another point to 

gain. 
And soon the mountain that you feared will prove 

to be a plain. 



T 



THE WAY TO WIN. 

HERE'S always a river to cross, 

Always an effort to make, 
If there's anything good to win, 
Any rich prize to take ; 
Yonder's the fruit we crave. 

Yonder the charming scene ; 
But deep and wide, with a troubled tide, 
Is the river that lies between. 



ramiini I ;-::\'v:.l^'Jf;«llll',11lMmil'3i';'''; 



iiipiilifpi 




HOME EMPLUY.MENTS. 



325 



THE WORLD'S WORKERS. 




T 



At length, half starved, and weak and lean 

He sought his former neighbor, 
Who now had grown so sleek and round, 
He weighed a fraction of a pound, 
And looked as if the art he'd found 
Of living witliout labor. 



THE CHURCH SPIDER. 

WO spiders, so the story gOLS, 
Upon a living bent, 
Entered the meeting-liouse one day, 
And hopefully were heard to sa\ — 
" Here we will have at least fair play. 
With nothing to prevent." 

Each chose his place and went to work — 

The light web grew apace ; 
One on the altar spun his thread, 
But shortly came the -sexton dread. 
And swept him off, and so, half dead, 

He sought another place. 

"I'll try the pulpit next," said he, 

'• There surely is a prize ; 
The desk a])pears so neat and clean, 
I'm sure no spider there has been — 
Besides, how often have I seen 

The pastor brushing flies!" 

He tried the pulpit, but alas ! 

His hopes proved visionary ; 
With dusting brush the sexton came, 
And spoiled the geometric game. 
Nor gave him time or space to claim 

The right of sanctuary. 

" How is it, friend," he asked, " that I 

Endured such thumps and knocks, 
While you have grown so very gross?" 
" 'Tis plain," he answered — " not a loss 
I've met, since first I spun across 
The contribution box." 



ORTH comes the maid, and like the morn- 
and followed close by 



r^ nig smiles ; 

■*■ The mistress, too 

Giles. 
A friendly tripod forms their humble seat, 
With pails bright scoured and delicately sweet. 
Where shadowing elms obstruct the morning ray 
Begins the work, begins the simple lay ; 
The full-charged udder yields its willing stream 
While Mary sings some lover's amorous dream ; 
And crouching Giles beneath a neighboring tree 
Tugs o'er his pail, and chants with equal glee; 



GILES AND MARY. 

Whose hat with battered brim, of nap so bare, 
From the cow's side purloins a coat of hair — 
A mottled ensign of his harmless trade, 
An unambitious, peaceable cockade. 

As unambitious, too, that cheerful aid 
The mistress yields beside her rosy maid ; 
With joy she views her plenteous reeking store. 
And bears a brimmer to the dairy door. 
Her cows dismissed, the luscious mead to roam. 
Till eve again recalls them loaded home. 

Robert Bloomfield. 



THE WORLD'S WORKERS. 



327 



fHE SHIP-BUILDERS. 

THE sky is ruddy in tlie east, 
The earth is gray below, 
And spectral in the river-mist, 
The ship's white timbers show. 
Then let the sounds of measured stroke 

And grating saw begin ; 
The broad-axe to the gnarled oak, 
The mallet to the pin ! 

Hark ! — roars the bellows, blast on blast, 

The sooty smithy jars, 
And fire-sparks, rising far and fast, 

Are fading with the stars. 
All day for us the smith shall stand 

Beside that flashing forge ; 
All day for us his heavy hand 

The groaning anvil scourge. 

From far-off hills, the panting team 

For us is toiling near ; 
For us the raftsmen down the stream 

Their island barges steer. 
Rings out for us the axe-man's stroke 

In forests old and still — 
For us the century-circled oak 

Falls crashing down his hill. 

Up ! — up ! — in nobler toil than ours 

No craftsmen bear a part ; 
We make of nature's giant powers 

The .Niaves of human art. 
Lay rib to rib and beam to beam, 

And drive the treenails free ; 
Nor faithless joint nor yawning seam 

Shall tempt the searching sea ! 

Where'er the keel of our good ship 

The sea's rough field shall plough — 
Where'er her tossing spars shall drip 
. With salt-spray caught below — 
That ship must heed her master's beck, 

Her helm obey his hand. 
And seamen tread her reeling deck 
As if they trod the land. 

Her oaken ribs the vulture-beak 

Of northern ice may peel ; 
The sunken rock and coral peak 

May grate along her keel ; 
And know we well the painted shell 

We give to wind and wave. 
Must float, the sailor's citadel. 

Or sink, the sailor's grave ! 

Ho ! — strike away the bars and blocks, 

And set the good ship free ! 
Why lingers on these dusty rocks 

The young bride of the sea ? 



Look ! how she moves adown the grooves, 

In graceful beauty now ! 
How lowly on the breast she loves 

Sinks down her virgin prow ! 

God bless her ! wheresoe'er the breeze 

Her snowy wings shall fan, 
Aside the frozen Hebrides, 

Or sultry Hindostan ! 
Where'er, in mart or on the main, 

With peaceful flag unfurled, 
She helps to wind the silken chain 

Of commerce round the world ! 

Speed on the ship ! — But let her bear 

No mercliandise of sin, 
No groaning cargo of despair 

Her roomy hold within. 
No Lethean drug for eastern lands, 

Nor poison-draught for ours ; 
But honest fruits of toiling hands 

And nature's sun and showers. 

Be hers the prairie's golden grain. 

The desert's golden sand, 
The clustered fruits of sunny Spain, 

The spice of morning-land ! 
Her pathway on the open main 

May blessings follow free. 
And glad hearts welcome back again 

Her white sails from the sea ! 

J. G. Whittier. 



H 



THE SHOEMAKERS. 

O ! workers of the old time styled 
The gentle craft of leather ! 
Young brothers of the ancient guild, 
Stand forth once more together ! 
Call out again your long array. 
In the olden merry manner ! 
Once more, on gay St. Crispin's day, 
Fling out your blazoned banner. 

Rap, rap ! upon the well-worn stone 

How falls the polished hammer ! 
Rap, rap ! the measured sound has grown 

A quick and merry clamor. 
Now shape the sole ! now deftly curl 

The glossy vamp around it, 
And bless the while the bright-eyed girl 

Whose gentle fingers bound it ! 

For you, along the Spanish main 

A hundred keels are ploughing ; 
For you, the Indian on the plain 

His lasso-coil is throwing ; 
For you, deep glens with hemlock dark 

The woodman's fire is lighting; 
For you, upon the oak's gray bark, 

The woodman's axe is smiting. 



328 



THE WORLD'S WORKERS. 



For you, from Carolina's pine 

The rosin-gum is stealing ; 
For you, the dark-eyed Florentine 

Her silken skeiri is reeling ; 
For you, the dizzy goat-herd roams 

His rugged Alpine ledges ; 
For you, round all her shepherd homes, 

Bloom England's thorny hedges. 

The foremost still, by day or night, 

On moated mound or heather, 
Where'er the need of trampled right 

Brought toiling men together ; 
Where the free burghers from the wall 

Defied the mail-clad master, 
Than yours, at freedom's trumpet-call, 

No craftsmen rallied faster. 

Let foplings sneer, let fools deride — 

Ye heed no idle scorner ; 
Free hands and hearts are still your pride. 

And duty done, your honor. 
Ye dare to trust, for honest fame. 

The jury time empanels. 
And leave to truth each noble name 

Which glorifies your annals. 

Thy songs, Hans Sachs, are living yet, 

In strong and hearty German ; 
And Bloomfield's lay, and Clifford's wit, 

And patriot fame of Sherman ; 
Still from his book, a mystic seer, 

The soul of Behmen teaches, 
And England's priestcraft shakes to hear 

Of Fox's leathern breeches. 

The foot is yours; where'er it falls. 

It treads your well-wrought leather. 
On earthen floor, in marble halls, 

On carpet or on heather. 
Still there the sweetest charm is found 

Of matron grace or vestal's. 
As Hebe's foot bore nectar round 

Among the old celestials ! 

Rap ! raji ! your stout and bluff brogan, 

With footsteps slow and weary. 
May wander where the sky's blue span 

Shuts down upon the prairie. 
On beauty's foot your slippers glance, 

By Saratoga's fountains, 
Or twinkle down the summer dance 

Beneath the Crystal Mountains ! 

The red brick to the mason's hand, 

The brown earth to the tiller's. 
The shoe in yours shall wealth command, 

Like fairy Cinderella's ! 
As they who shunned the household maid 

Beheld the crown upon her, 
So all shall see your toil repaid 

With hearth and home and honor. 



Y 



Then let the toast be freely quaffed, 

In water cool and brimming — 
All honor to the good old craft, 

Its merry men and women ! ' 
Call out again your long array. 

In the old time's pleasant manner ; 
Once more, on gay St. Crispin's day, 

Fling out his blazoned banner ! 

J. G. Whither. 

MORAL COSMETICS. 

E who would have your features florid. 
Lithe limbs, bright eyes, unwrinkled fore- 
head, 

From age's devastation horrid. 
Adopt this plan — 
T will make, in climate cold or torrid, 
A hale old man. 



Avoid in youth luxurious diet, 
Restrain the passions' lawless riot; 
Devoted to domestic quiet. 

Be wisely gay ; 
So shall ye, spite of age's fiat, 

Resist decay. 

Seek not in Mammon's worship pleasure, 
But find your richest, dearest treasure 
In God, his word, his work, not leisure: 

The mind, not sense. 
Is the sole scale by which to measure 

Your opulence. 

This is the solace, this the science, 
Life's purest, sweetest, best appliance, 
That disappoints not man's reliance, 

Whate'er his state ; 
But challenges, with calm defiance. 

Time, fortune, fate. 

Horace Smith. 



T 



ADVICE. 

AKE the open air. 

The more you take the better; 
Follow nature's laws 
To the very letter. 
Let the doctors go 

To the Bay of Biscay, 
Let alone the gin, 

The brandy, and the whiskey. 
Freely exercise. 

Keep your spirits cheerful ; 
Let no dread of sickness 

Make you ever fearful. 
Eat the simplest food. 

Drink the pure, cold water, 
Then you will be well, 

Or at least you oughter. 



THE WORLDS WORKERS. 



329 



A WORK-SONG. 

WHO murmurs that his heart is sick 
With toil from day to day, 
That brows are wrinkled ere their 
time 
And locks of youth are grey ? 
'Twas not in such a craven mood 

Our fathers won the lands. 
But by the might of toiling brain, 
The stroke of resolute hands : 



For true love's fruits are noble acts, 

And fruitless love must die ; 
And if thy fervency be spurned, 

Go, set to work again — 
'Twill help to quench the burning woe. 
To ease the bilter pain ; 

For hard work is strength, boy, 
Whatever the fiend may say. 
And after storm and cloud and rain 
Comes up the cheerier day. 




WINNOWING RICE IN JAPAN. 



For hard work is strength, boy ; 

And, whether in house or field. 
Ho ! for the men that mind and arm 

In righteous labor wield ! 

If trouble clings about thy path 

Ere yet thy days are old ; 
If dear friends sink in death, and leave 

Thy world all void and cold ; 
Wilt thou lie down in aimless woe 

And waste thy life away ? 
Nay, grieving's but a sluggish game 
That coward spirits play; 

But hard work is strength, boy, 

And when the stout heart bleeds. 
There's ne'er a balm that heals it 
Like the doing of great deeds. 

Ah ! — lovest thou a bonnie lass? 
Then scorn to tlream and sigh, 



And is a tnie, true wife thine own ? — • 

Let never a murmur rise 
To draw one doubt across her brow, 

One tear into her eyes ; 
And if thy children round her knees 

Look up and cry for bread, 
O kiss their fears awav, and turn 
And work with heart and head ; 
For hard work is strength, boy. 

And with the setting sun 
Come dearer peace and sweeter rest 
The more of it that's done. 

And if thou have no child, nor wife, 

Nor bosom friend, what then ? 
Toil on with might through day, through 
night, 

To help thy fellow-men ; 
And though thou earn but little thanks, 

Forbear to fret and pine ;. 



330 



THE WORLD'S WORKERS. 



There's One that drank of deadlier woes, 
And holds thee dear for thine : 
And hard work is strength, boy, 

And love is the end of life, 
Music that fires the blood of the brave 
In the midst of battle and strife. 

And when thy power is ebbed and gone, 

Lay down thy head to rest, 
And the great God will stretch his hands, 

And draw thee to his breast — 
Nay, talk no more of sickening heart, 

Gray hairs or wrinkled brow ; 
Up, up, and gird thy loins for toil; 
There's good to do enow ; 

And hard work is strength, boy, 

And life's a rapture still, 
That loses no whit of its joyousness 
To the men of unwavering will. 

George F. Armstrong. 

THE HAPPY HEART. 

RT thou poor, yet hast thou 
golden slumbers ? 
O sweet content ! 
Art thou rich, yet is thy mind 
perplexed ? 
O ])unishment ! 
Dost thou laugh to see how 
fools are vexed 
To add to golden numbers, golden 

numbers ? 
O sweet content ! O sweet, O sweet 
content ! 
Work apace, apace, apace, apace , 
Honest labor bears a lovely face ; 
Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny ! 

Canst drink the waters of the crisped spring ? 

O sweet content ! 
Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own 
tears ? 
O punishment ! 
Then he that patiently want's burden bears 
No burden bears, but is a king, a king ! 
O sweet content ! O sweet, O sweet content! 
Work apace, apace, apace, apace ; 
Honest labor bears a lovely face ; 
Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny! 

T. Decker. 
LABOR ON. 

' N the name of God advancing. 
Sow thy seed at morning light ; 
Cheerily the furrow turning. 
Labor on with all thy might. 
Look not to the far-off future. 

Do the work which nearest lies ; 
Sow thou must before thou reapest, 
Rest at last is labor's prize. 




I 



PLUCK AND PRAYER. 

THERE wa'n't any use o' frettin', 
And I told Obadiah so. 
For ef we couldn't hold on to things 
We'd jest got to let 'em go. 
There were lots of folks that'd suffer 

Along with the rest of us, 
An' it didn't seem to be wuth our while 
To make sich a dreffle fuss. 

With the point of a cambric needle 

I druv the wolf from the door. 
For I knew that we needn't starve to death, 

Or be lazy because we were poor. 
An' Obadiah he wondered. 

An' kept me patchin' his knees. 
An' thought it strange how the meal held out. 

An' strange we didn't freeze. 

But I said to myself in a whisper, 

"God knows w^here His gift descends; 
An' 'tisn't alius that faith gits down 

As fur as the finger-ends." 
An' I wouldn't have no one reckon 

My Obadiah a shirk ; 
For some, you know, have the gift to pray, 

An' others the gift to work. 

MAGNIFICENT POVERTY. 

POVERTY in youth, when it succeeds, is so 
far magnificent that it turns the whole will 
towards effort, and the whole soul towards 
aspiration. Poverty strips the material life en- 
tirely bare, and makes it hideous ; thence arise 
inexpressible yearnings toward the ideal life. The 
rich young man has a hundred brilliant and coarse 
amusements, racing, hunting, dogs, cigars, gaming, 
feasting, and the rest ; busying the lower portions 
of the soul at the expense of its higher and deli- 
cate portions. 

The poor young man must work for his bread ; 
he eats ; when he has eaten, he has nothing more 
but revery. He goes free to the play which God 
gives ; he beholds the sky, space, the stars, the 
flowers, the children, the humanity in which he 
suffers, the creation in which he shines. He looks 
at humanitv so much that he sees the soul ; he 
looks at creation so much that he sees God. He 
dreams, he feels that he is great ; he dreams again, 
and he feels that he is tender. From the egotism 
of the suffering man, he passes to the compassion 
of the contemplating man. A wonderful feeling 
springs up within him, forgetfulness of self, and 
pity for all. 

In thinking of the numberless enjoyments which 
nature offers, gives and gives lavishly to open souls, 
and refuses to closed souls, he, a millionaire of 
intelligence, comes to grieve for the millionaires 
of money. All hatred goes out of his heart in 
proportion as all light enters his mind. And then 



THE WORLD'S WORKERS. 



331 



is he uiihapi)y? No. The misery of a young 
man is never miserable. The first lad you meet, 
poor as he may be, with his health, his strength, 
his iiuick step, his shining eyes, his blood which 
circulates warmly, his black locks, his fresh cheeks, 
his rosy lips, his white teeth, his pure breath, will 
always be envied by an old emperor. 

And then every morning he sets about earning 
his bread ; and while his hands are earning his 
living, his backbone is gaining firmne.ss; his brain 
is gaining ideas. When his work is done, he re- 
turns in ineffable ecstasies to contemplation, to 
joy ; he sees his feet in difficulties, in obstacles, 
on the pavement, in thorns, sometimes in mire ; 
his head is in the light. He is firm, serene, gen- 
tle, peaceful, attentive, serious, content with little, 
benevolent; and he blesses God for having given 
him these two estates which many of the rich are 
without : labor which makes him free, and thought 
which makes him noble. 

Victor Hugo. 

YOU AND I. 

WHO would scorn his humble fellow 
For the coat he wears ? 
For the poverty he suffers ? 
For his daily cares ? 
Who would pass him in the footway 

With averted eye ? 
AVould you, brother ? No, you would not. 
If you would— not / 

Who, when vice or crime, repentant. 

With a grief sincere 
Asked for pardon, would refuse it — 

More than Heaven severe ? 
Who, to erring woman's sorrow. 

Would with taunts reply ? 
Would you brother ? No, you would not. 

If you would — not /. 

Who would say that all who differ 

From his sect must be 
Wicked sinners, heaven-rejected. 

Sunk in error's sea, 
And consign them to perdition 

With a holy sigh ? 
Would you, brother ? No, you would not. 

If you would — not /. 

Who would sav that six days' cheating 

In the shop or mart, 
Miajht be rubbed by Sunday praying 

From the tainted heart. 
If the Sunday face were solemn 

And the credit high? 
Would you, brother? No, you would not. 

If you would — not /. 

Who would say that vice is virtue 
In a hall of state ? 



Or that rogues are not dishonest, 

If they dine off plate ? 
Who would say success and merit 

Ne'er part company? 
Would you, brother ? No, you would not. 

If you would— not /. 

Who would give a cause his efforts 

When the cause was strong, 
But desert it on its failure. 

Whether right or wrong? 
Ever siding with the upmost, 

Letting downmost lie? 
Would you, brother? No, you would not. 

If you would — not /. 

Who would lend his arm to strengthen 

Warfare with the right ? 
Who would give his pen to blacken 

Freedom's page of light? 
Who would lend his tongue to utter 

Praise of tyranny ? 
Would you, brother ? No, you would not. 

If you would — not / 

Charles Mackay. 

DON'T STAND IN THE WAY. 



u n^ 



HE world is too crowded," 

The grumbler declares, 
" I don't like its labor, 
I don't like its cares." 
If you care not to work, sir. 

And much rather play, 
Why, do as you please. 

But don't stand in the way. 

The sowers are coming 

To put in the seed. 
This army is scarcely 

Enough for our need ; 
You can lend us a hand 

For an hour, or a day. 
Or stand like a post. 

But don't stand in the way. 

Life's summer and autumn 

They glide on apace, 
And then the glad reapers 

Will fall into place. 
But if you have not labored 

You can't expect pay ; 
And the harvest is theirs ! 

So don't stand in their way. 

Keep moving, keep moving. 

There's good work for all. 
Put a hand to the plough, 

Or go back to the wall. 
The young men are coming. 

And old men grown gray. 
The world needs them all : 

Friend, don't stand in the way. 



332 



THE WORLDS WORKERS. 



THE HUSBANDMAN. 

' ARTH, of man the bounteous mother, 
Feeds him still with corn and wine; 

' He who best would aid a brother 
Shares with hiui these gifts divine. 

Many a power within her bosom, 
Noiseless hidden, works beneath ; 



Work with these, as bids thy reason, 
For they work thy toil to aid. 

Sow thy seed and reap in gladness ! 

Man himself is all a seed ; 
Hope and hardship, joy and sadness — 

blow the plant to ripeness lead. 

John Sterling. 







Hence are seed and leaf and blossom, 
Golden ear, and clustered wreath. 

These to swell with strength and beauty 

Is the royal task of man ; 
Man's a king; his throne is duty, 

Since his work on earth began. 

Bud and harvest, bloom and vintage — 
These, like man, are fruits of earth; 

Stamped in clay, a heavenly mintage. 
All from dust receive their birth. 

What the dream but vain rebelling, 
If from earth we sought to flee ? 

'Tis our stored and ample dwelling ; 
'Tis from it the skies we see. 

Wind and frost, and hour and season, 
Land and water, sun and shade — 



.»V i'lll'lrni 'I I' 



EARNING CAPITAL. 



YOUNG men amongst us generally have to 
earn their capital if they ever have any. It 
is not governed by the amount of wages or 
profit, but by the difference between earnings and 
spendings. The principle of saving has first to be 
established, and its beginning often tests the grit 
of a young man more than temptations to do 
wrong. He should have learned that money is 
on!v safely and surely gotten by work at least, by 
toil often, by drudgery frequently, and that his 
life will turn for worth or worlhlessness as he re- 
gards the days of small things. 

Our country is accumulating capital fast, and 
the good, competent boys of correct habits, who 
have learned the value of a dollar by saving a 
(lenny, will get the use of what they need of it. 
Too many, however, despise work, shirk from toil, 



THE WORLD'S WORKERS. 



333 



and in no emergency would be the drudge when 
these are the crucibles that try the gold in a fellow. 
Ownership of land in future does not promise en- 
hanced values at such rapid rates as in the past, 
while good farming promises abundantly. With 
the young person everything turns on the habits 
of industry. 1 am not considering anything but 
this one distinction, for no matter how pleasant, 
temperate or honest a boy may be, if he shuns 
labor he is not worth the powder to blow him up. 
I'he struggle for the front will be greater; the for- 
tune will favor the frugal. 

But he who accomplishes most will learn soonest 
to save a dollar, if he has to sweat for it; and he 
who fails will keep the sidewalk. Wealth in the 



For soon she found an early grave, 
Nor stayed her partner long alone. 

They left their orphan here below, 
A stranger wild beneath the sun, 

This lesson sad to learn from woe — 
The poor man's labor's never done. 

No parent's hand, with pious care, 

My childhood's devious steps to guide; 
Or bid my venturous youth beware 

The griefs that smote on every side. 
'Twas still a round of changing woe, 

Woe never ending, still begun, 
That taught my bleeding heart to know 

The poor man's labor's never done. 




future will come from scientific knowledge of some 
industrial pursuit begun in early life, and pursued 
with all the energy of careful men. The biogra- 
phy, faithfully pictured, of our unfortunates who 
fail would be quite salutary and suggestive, and 
why a man went to the poor-house would be (piite 
as valuable family reading as how another man 
went to the Senate. 

James Wilson. 

THE POOR MAN'S LABOR. 

mother sighed, the stream of pain 
Flowed fast and chilly o'er her brow; 
My father prayed, nor prayed in vain; 
Sweet Mercy cast a glance below. 
My husband dear," the sufferer cried, 

" My pains are o'er, behold your son " 

Thank Heaven, sweet partner," he replied; 

" The poor boy's labor's then begun." 

Alas ! the hapless life she gave 

By fate was doomed to cost her own ; 



M\ 



Soon dies the faltenng voice of fame ; 

The vow of love's too warm to last ; 
And friendship, what a faithless dream ! 

And, wealth, how soon thy glare is past! 
But sure one hope remains to save — 

The longest course must soon be run, 
And in the shelter of the grave 

The poor man's labor must be done. 

John Philpot Curran. 

WORKING AND DREAMING. 

\A^ the while my needle traces 



A 



Stitches in a prosy seam. 
Flit before me little faces, 
And for them the while I dream. 

Building castle light and airy 

For my merry little Kate, 
Wondering if the wayward fairy 

Will unlock the golden gate. 

Scaling fome's proud height for Willie, 
Just as all fond mothers do, 



334 



THE WORLD'S WORKERS. 



And for her, my thoughtful Lily, 
Twining laurel leaflets, too. 

In the far-off future roving 

Where the skies are bright and fair ; 
Hearing voices charmed and loving, 

Calling all my darlings there. 

Through the distant years I'm tracing 
Dewy pathways bright with flowers, 



And along their borders placing 
Here and there these pets of ours. 

And the while my fancy lingers 
In that hope-born summer clime. 

Pretty garments prove my fingers 
Have been busy all the time. 

Mrs. A. L. Lawrie. 



TO THE HARVEST MOON. 



P' 



,A 




^^ ^sate^sE 



LEASING 't is, O modest moon ! 
Now the night is at her noon, 
'Neath thy sway to musing lie, 
While around the zeph\rs sigh, 
Fanning soft the sun-tanned wheat, 
Ripened by the summer's heat ; 
Picturing all the rustic's joy 
When boundless plenty greets his eye. 
And thinking soon, 
O modest moon ! 
How many a female eye will roam 
Along the road. 
To see the load, 
The last dear load of harvest home. 
'Neath yon lowly roof he lies. 
The husbandman, with sleep-sealed eyes; 
He dreams of crowded barns, and round 
The yard he hears the flail resound ; 
O, may no hurricane destroy 
His visionary views of joy ! 
God of the winds! O, hear his humble prayer. 
And while the moon of harvest shines, thy bluster- 
ing whirlwind spare ! 

Henry Kirke White. 

THE SACREDNESS OF WORK. 



THERE is a perennial nobleness, and even 
sacredness, in work. Were he ever so be- 
nighted, or forgetful of his high calling, 
there is always hope in a man that actually and 
earnestly works ; in idleness alone there is per- 
petual despair. Consider how, even in the meanest 
sorts of labor, the whole soul of a man is composed 
into real harmony. He bends himself with free 
valor against his task ; and doubt, desire, sorrow, 
remorse, indignation, despair itself, shrink mur- 
muring far off in their caves. The glow of labor 
in him is a purifying fire, wherein all poison is 
burned u]) ; and of smoke itself there is made a 
bright and blessed flame. 

Blessed is he who has found his work; let him 
ask no other blessedness; he has a life purpose. 



Labor is life. From the heart of the worker rises 
the celestial force, breathed into him by Almighty 
God, awakening him to all nobleness, to all knowl- 
edge. Hast thou valued patience, courage, open- 
ness to light, or readiness to own thy mistakes? 
In wrestling with the dim brute powers of fact thou 
wilt continually learn. For every noble work the 
possibilities are diffused through immensity, undis- 
coverable, except to faith. 

Man, son of heaven ! is there not in thine in- 
most heart a spirit of active method, giving thee 
no rest till thou unfold it? Complain not. Look 
up. See thy fellow-workmen surviving through 
eternity, the sacred band of immortals. Strive to 
be one of that immortal company. 

Thomas Carlvle. 



THE UNFINISHED STOCKING. 



L 



AY it aside — her work ; no more she sits 
By open window in the western sun, 
Thinking of this and that beloved one 

In silence as she knits. 



Lay it aside ; the needles in their place ; 
No more she welcomes at the cottage door 
The coming of her children home once more 

With sweet and tearful face. 



THE WORLD'S WORKERS. 



335 



Lay it aside ; her work is done and well ; 
A generous, sympathetic, Christian life — 
A foithful mother and a noble wife — 

Her influence who can tell ? 

Lay it aside — say not her work is done ; 
No deed of love or goodness ever dies, 
But in the lives of others multiplies; 

Say it is just begun. 

Sarah K. Bolton. 

THE GOOD OLD PLOUGH. 

AS SUNC IIV THIi HUTCniNSONS. 

LET thern sing who may of the battle tray, 
And the deeds that have long since past ; 
Let them chant in praise of the tar whose 
days, 
Are spent on the ocean vast. 
I would render to these all the worship you please, 

I would honor them even now ; 
But I'd give far more for my heart's full store 
To the cause of the good old plough. 

Let them laud the notes that in music float 

Through the bright and glittering hall; 
While the amorous twirl of the hair's bright curl 

Round the shoulder of beauty fall. 
But dearer to me is the song from the tree. 

And the rich and blossoming bough ; 
O, these are the sweets which the rustic greets 

As he follows the good old plough ! 

Full many tiiere be that daily we see, 

With a selfish and hollow pride, 
Who the ploughman's lot, in his humble cot. 

With a scornful look deride ; 
But I'd rather take, aye, a hearty shake 

From his hand than to wealth I'd bow; 
For the honest grasp of his hand's rough clasp, 

Has stood by the good old plough. 

All honor be, then, to these gray old men. 

When at last they are bowed with toil ! 
Their warfare then o'er, they battle no more. 

For they have conquered the stubborn soil. 
And the chaplet each wears is his silver hairs ; 

And ne'er shall the victor's brow 
With a laurel crown to the grave go down 

Like the sons of the good old plough. 

THE FISHERMEN. 

HURRAH I the seaward breezes 
Sweep down the bay amain ; 
Heave u[), my lads, the anchor ! 
Run up the sail again ! 
Leave to the lubber landsmen 
The rail-car and the steed ; 
The stars of heaven shall guide us, 
The breath of heaven shall speed. 

From the hill-top looks the steeple. 
And the light-house from the sand ; 



And the scattered pines are waving 
Their tarewell from the land. 

One glance, my lads, behind us. 
For the homes we leave one sigh, 

Ere we take the change and chances 
Of the ocean and the sky. 

Now, brothers, for the icebergs 

Of frozen Labrador, 
Floating spectral in the moonshine. 

Along the low, black shore ! 
Where like snow the gannet's feathers 

On Brador's rocks are shed, 
And the noisy murr are flying, 

Like black scuds, overhead ; 

Where in mist the rock is hiding, 

And the sharp reef lurks below. 
And the white squall smites in summer, 

And the autumn tempests blow; 
Where, through gray and rolling vaoor. 

From evening un!o morn, 
A thousand boats are hailing,' 

Horn answering unto horn. 

Hurrah ! for the Red Island, 

With the white cross on its crown ! 
Hurrah ! for Meccatina, 

And its mountains bare and brown ! 
Where the Caribou's tall antlers 

O'er the dwarf-wood freely toss, 
And the footstep of the Mickmack 

Has no sound upon the moss. 

There we'll drop our lines, and gather 

Old ocean's treasures in. 
Where'er the mottled mackerel 

Turns up a steel-dark fin. 
The sea's our field of harvest. 

Its scaly tribes our grain ; 
We'll reap the teeming waters 

As at home they reap the plain ! 

Our wet hands spread the carpet. 

And light the hearth of home ; 
From our fish, as in the old time, 

The silver coin shall come. 
As the demon fled the chamber 

Where the fish of Tobit lay. 
So ours from all our dwellings 

Shall frighten want away. 

Though the mist upon our jackets 

In the bitter air conseals. 
And our lines wind stiff and slowly 

From off the frozen reels ; 
Though the fog be dark around us. 

And the storm blow high and loud, 
We will whistle down the wild wind, 

And laugh beneath the cloud ! 



336 



THE WORLD'S \]^ORKERS. 



In the darkness as in daylight, 

On the water as on hind, 
God's eye is looking on us, 

And beneath us is his hand ! 
Death will find us soon or later, 

On the deck or in the cot ; 
And we cannot meet him better 

Than in working out our lot. 

Hurrah ! — hurrah ! — the west wind 

Comes freshening down the bay, 
The rising sails are filling — 

Give way, my lads, give way ! 
Leave the coward landsman clinging 

To the dull earth, like a weed — 
The stars of heaven shall guide us, 

The breath of heaven shall speed ! 

J. G. Whittier. 



H 



THE CORN SONG. 

EAP high the farmer's wintry hoard ! 
Heap high the golden corn ! 
No richer gift has autumn poured 
From out her lavish horn ! 



Let other lands, exulting, glean 

The apple from the pine. 
The orange from its glossy green. 

The cluster from the vine ; 

We better love the hardy gift 

Our rugged vales bestow, 
To cheer us when the storm shall drift 

Our harvest fields with snow. 

Through vales of grass and meads of flowers. 
Our ploughs their furrows made. 

While on the hills the sun and showers 
Of changeful April played. 

We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain. 

Beneath the sun of May, 
And frightened from our sprouting grain 

The robber crows away. 

All through the long bright days of June, 

Its leaves grew green and fair. 
And waved in hot midsummer's noon 

Its soft and yellow hair. 

And now, with autumn's moonlit eves, 

Its harvest time has come, 
We pluck away the frosted leaves, 

And bear the treasure home. 

There, richer than the fabled gift 

Apollo showered of old, 
Fair hands the broken grain shall sift. 

And knead its meal of gold. 

Let vapid idlers loll in silk. 
Around their costly board ; 



Give us the bowl of samp and milk, 
By homespun beauty poured ! 

Where'er the wide old kitchen hearth 

Sends up its smoky curls. 
Who will not thank the kindly earth. 

And bless our farmer girls? 

Then shame on all the proud and vain. 

Whose folly laughs to scorn 
The blessing of our hardy grain. 

Our wealth of golden corn ! 

Let earth withhold her goodly root, 

Let mildew blight the rye, 
Give to the worm the orchard's fruit, 

The wheat-field to the fly. 

But let the good old crop adorn 

The hills our fathers trod ; 
Still let us, for his golden corn, 

Send up our thanks to God ! 

J. G. Whittier. 

THE HUSKERS. 

IT was late in mild October, and the long autum- 
nal rain 
Had left the summer harvest-fields all green 
with grass again ; 
The first sharp frosts had fallen, leaving all the 

woodlands gay 
With the hues of summer's rainbow, or the 
meadow-flowers of Ma}-. 

Through a thin, dry mist, that morning, the sun 

rose broad and red. 
At first a rayless disc of fire, he brightened as he 

sped ; 
Yet, even his noontide glory fell chastened and 

subdued, 
On the corn-fields and the orchards, and softly 

pictured wood. 

And all that quiet afternoon, slow sloping to the 

night. 
He wove with golden shuttle the haze with yellow 

light; 
Slanting through the painted beeches, he glorified 

the hill"; 
And, beneath it, pond and meadow lay brighter, 

greener still. 

And shouting boys in woodland haunts caught 

glimpses of that sky. 
Flecked by the many-tinted leaves, and laughed, 

they knew not why ; 
And school-girls, gay with aster-flowers, beside the 

meadow brooks. 
Mingled the glow of autumn with the sunshine of 

sweet looks. 



THE WORLD'S WORKERS. 



337 



From spire and barn, looked westerly the patient 

weather-cocks ; 
But even the birches on the hill stood motionless 

as rocks. 
No sound was in the woodlands, save the squirrel's 

dropping shell, 
And the yellow leaves among the boughs, low 

rustling as they fell. 

The summer grains were harvested ; the stubble- 
fields lay dry. 

Where June winds rolled, in light and sliade, the 
pale-green waves of rye ; 

But still, on gentle hill-slopes, in valleys fringed 
with wood, 

Ungathered, bleaching in the sun, the heavy corn 
crop stood. 

Bent low, by auturnn's wind and rain, through 
husks that, dry and sere. 

Unfolded from their ripened charge, shone out the 
yellow ear ; 

Beneath, the turnip lay concealed, in many a ver- 
dant fold, 

And glistened in the slanting light the pumpkin's 
sphere of gold. 

There wrought the busy harvesters ; and many a 

creaking wain 
Bore slowly to the long barn-floor its load of husk 

and grain ; 
Till broad and red, as when he rose, the sun sank 

down at last. 
And like a merry guest's farewell, the day in 

brightness passed. 

And lo ! as through the western pines, on meadow, 

stream and pond. 
Flamed the red radiance of a sky, set all afire 

beyond. 
Slowly o'er the Eastern sea-bluffs a milder glory 

shone, 
And the sunset and the moonrise were mingled 

into one. 

As thus into the quiet night the twilight lapsed 

away, 
And deeper in the brightening moon the tranquil 

shadows lay ; 
From many a brown old farm-house, and hamlet 

without name. 
Their milking and their home-tasks done, the 

merry buskers came. 

Swung o'er the heaped-up harvest, from pitchforks 

in the mow. 
Shone dimly down the lantern.* on the pleasant 

scene below ; 
The growing pile of husks behind, the golden ears 

before, 
And laughing e\es and busy hands and brown 

cheeks glimmering o'er. 

22 



Half hidden in a quiet nook, serene of look and 
heart. 

Talking their old times over, the old men sat 
apart ; 

While, up and down the unhusked pile, or nest- 
ling in its shade. 

At hide-and-seek, with laugh and shout, the happy 
children played. 




Urged by the good host's daughter, a maiden 

young and fair. 
Lifting to light her sweet blue eyes and pride of 

soft brown hair, 
The master of the village school, sleek of hair and 

smooth of tongue. 
To the quaint tune of some old psalm, a husking- 

ballad sung. J. G. Whittier. 



w 



THE LUMBERMEN. 

ILDLY round our woodland quarters, 

Sad-voiced autumn grieves ; 
Thickly down these swelling waters 
Float his fallen leaves. 
Through the tall and naked timber, 

Column-like and old. 
Gleam the sunsets of November, 
From their skies of gold. 

O'er us, to the southland heading. 

Screams the gray wild goose ; 
On the night-frost sounds the treading 

Of the brindled moose. 
Noiseless creeping, while we're sleeping, 

Frost his task-work plies ; 
Soon, his icy bridges heaping. 

Shall our log-piles rise. 



338 



THE WORLD'S WORKERS. 



When, with sounds of smothered thunder, 

On some night of rain. 
Lake and river break asunder 

\\ inter's weakened chain, 
Down the wild March flood shall bear them 

To the saw-mill's wheel, 
Or where steam, the slave, shall tear them 

With his teeth of steel. 

Be it starlight, be it moonlight. 

In these vales below. 
When the earliest beams of sunlight 

Streak the mountain's snow, 
Crisps the hoar-frost, keen and early. 

To our hurrying feet, 
And the forest echoes clearly 

All our blows repeat. 




Where the crystal Ambijejis 

Stretches broad and clear, 
And Millnoket's ])ine lilack ridges 

Hide the browsing deer : 
Where through lakes and wide morasses, 

Or through rocky walls. 
Swift and strong, Penobscot passes 

White with foamy falls; 

Where, through clouds, are glimpses given 

Of Katahdin's sides — 
Rock and forest piled to heaven. 

Torn and ploughed by slides ! 



Far below, the Indian trapping, 

In the sunshine warm ; 
Far above, the snow-cloud wrapping 

Half the peak in storm ! 

Where are mossy carpets better 

Than the Persian weaves. 
And than eastern perfumes sweeter 

Seem the fading leaves ; 
And a music wild and solemn, 

From the pine-tree's height, 
Rolls its vast and sea-like volume 

On the wind of night ; 

Make we here our cam]> of winter; 

And, through sleet and snow, 
Pitchy knot and beechen splinter 
On our hearth shall glow. 
Here, with mirth to lighten duty, 

We shall lack alone 
Woman's smile and girlhood's beauty, 
Childhood's lisping tone. 

But their hearth is brighter burning 

For our toil to-day ; 
And the welcome of returning 

Shall our loss repay. 
When, like seamen from the waters. 

From the woods we come. 
Greeting sisters, wives, and daughters, 

Angels of our home ! 

Not for us the measured ringing 

From the village spire. 
Not for us the Sabbath singing 

Of the sweet-voiced choir : 
Ours the old, majestic temple, 

Where God's brightness shines 
Down the dome so grand and ample. 

Propped by lofty pines ! 

Through each branch-enwoven skylight, 
Speaks He in the breeze. 
As of old beneath the twilight 

Of lost Eden's trees ! 
For his ear, the inward feeling 

Needs no outward tongue ; 
He can see the spirit kneeling 

While the axe is swung. 

Heeding truth alone, and turning 

From the false and dim, 
Lamp of toil or altar burning 

Are alike to Him. 
Strike, then, comrades ! — Trade is waiting 

On our rugged toil ; 
Far ships waiting for the freighting 

Of our woodland spoil I 

Ships, whose traffic links these highlands, 

Bleak and cold, of ours. 
With the citron-planted islands 

Of a clime of flowers ; 



THE WORLD'S WORKERS. 



339 



To our frosts the tribute bringing 

Of eternal heats ; 
In our lap of winter flinging 

Tropic fruits and sweets. 

Cheerly, on the axe of labor, 

Let the sunbeams dance, 
Better than the flash of sabre 

Or the gleam of lance ! 
Strike ! — With every blow is given 

Freer sun and sky, 
And the long-hid earth to heaven 

Looks, with wondering eye ! 

Loud behind us grow the murmurs 

Of the age to come ; 
Clang of smiths, and tread of farmers, 

Bearing harvest home ! 
Here her virgin lap with treasures 

Shall the green earth fill ; 
Waving wheat and golden maize-ears 

Crown each beechen hill. 

Keep who will the city's alleys, 

Take the smooth-shorn plain — 
Give to us the cedar valleys. 

Rocks and hills of Maine ! 
In our north-land, wild and woody, 

Let us still have part ; 
Rugged nurse and mother sturdy, 

Hold us to thy heart ! 

O ! our free hearts beat the warmer 

For thy breath of snow ; 
And our tread is all the firmer 

For thy rocks below. 
Freedom, hand in hand with labor, 

Walketh strong and brave ; 
On the forehead of his neighbor 

No man writeth slave ! 

Lo, the day breaks ! old Katahdin's 

Pine-trees show its fires. 
While from these dim forest gardens 

Rise their blackened spires. 
Up, my comrades ! up and doing ! 

Manhood's rugged play 
Still renewing, bravelv hewing 

Through the world our way ! 

J. G. Whittier. 

THE NOBILITY OF LABOR. 

I CALL upon those whom I address to stand up 
for the nobility of labor. It is Heaven's 
great ordinance for human improvement. 
Let not that great ordinance be liroken down. 
What do I say? It is broken down; and it has 
been broken down for ages. Let it, then, be 
built up again ; here, if anywhere, on these shores 
of a new world — of a new civilization. But how, 
I may be asked, is it broken down? Do not men 
toil ? it may be said. They do, indeed, toil ; but 



they, too, generally do it because they must. 
Many submit to it as, in some sort, a degrading 
necessity ; and they desire nothing so much on 
earth as escape from it. They fulfill the great law 
of labor in the letter, but break it in the spirit ; 
fulfill it with the muscle, but break it with the 
mind. 

To some field of labor, mental or manual, every 
idler should fasten, as a chosen and coveted theatre 
of improvement. But so is he not impelled to do, 
under the teachings of our imperfect civilization. 
On the contrary, he sits down, folds his hands, 
and blesses himself in his idleness. This way of 
thinking is the heritage of the absurd and unjust 
feudal system, under which serfs labored, and gen- 
tlemen spent their lives in fighting and feasting. 
It is time that this opprobrium of toil were done 
away. 

Ashamed to toil, art thou ? Ashamed of thy 
dingy workshop and dusty labor-field ; of thy hard 
hands, scarred with service more honorable than 
that of war; of thy soiled and weather-stained 
garments, on which Mother Nature has embroid- 
ered, 'midst sun and rain, 'midst fire and steam, 
her own heraldic honors? Ashamed of these 
tokens and titles, and envious of the flaunting 
robes of imbecile idleness and vanity? It is trea- 
son to nature — it is impiety to Heaven — it is 
breaking Heaven's great ordinance. Toil, I re- 
peat — TOIL, either of the brain, or of the heart, or 
of the hand, is the only true manhood, the only 
true nobility ! Orville Dewey. 

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. 

WITH fingers weary and worn, 
With eyelids heavy and red, 
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 
Plying her needle and thread — 
Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; 
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch 
She sang the " Song of the Shirt !" 

" Work ! work ! work ! 

While the cock is crowing aloof! 
And work — work — work 

Till the stars shine through the roof! 
It's, O, to be a slave 

Along with the barbarous Turk, 
Where woman has never a soul to save, 

If this is Christian work ! 

" Work — work — work ! 

Till the brain begins to swim! 
Work — work — -work 

Till the eyes are heavy and dim ! 
Seam, and gusset, and band. 

Band, and gusset, and seam — 
Till over the buttons I fall asleep. 

And sew them on in a dream I 



340 



THE WORLD'S WORKERS. 



" O men with sisters dear ! 

O men with mothers and wives ! 
It is not linen you're wearing out, 

But human creatures' lives ! 
Stitch — stitch — stitch, 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt — 
Sewing at once, with a double thread, 

A shroud as well as a shirt ! 

" But why do I talk of death — 

That phantom of grisly hone ? 
I hardly fear his terrible shape, 

It seems so like my own — 
It seems so like my own 

Because of the fasts I keep ; 
O God ! that bread should be so dear ! 

And flesh and blood so cheap ! 

" Work — work — work! 

My labor never flags ; 
And what are its wages ? A bed of straw, 

A crust of bread— and rags, 
That shattered roof — and this naked floor — 

A table — a broken chair — 
And a wall so blank my shadow I thank 

For sometimes falling there ! 

" Work — work — work ! 

From weary chime to chime ! 
Work — work — work 

As prisoners work for crime ! 
Band, and gusset, and seam. 

Seam, and gusset, and band — 
Till the heart is sick and the brain benumbed, 

As well as the weary hand. 

" Work — work — work ! 

In the dull December light ! 
And work — work — work 

When the weather is warm and bright ! 
While underneath the eves 

The brooding swallows cling, 
As if to show me their sunny backs, 

And twit me with the spring. 



" O but to breathe the breath 

Of the cowslip and primrose sweet — 
With the sky above my head. 

And the grass beneath my feet ! 
For only one short hour 

To feel as I used to feel. 
Before I knew the woes of want. 

And the walk that costs a meal ! 

" O but for one short hour — 

A respite, however brief! 
No blessed leisure for love or hope. 

But only time for grief ! 
A little weeping would ease my heart : 

But in their briny bed 
My tears must stop, for every drop 

Hinders needle and thread I" 

With fingers weary and worn, 

With eyelids heavy and red, 
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags. 

Plying her needle and thread — 
Stitch I stitch ! stitch ! 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; 
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch — 
Would that its tone could reach the rich ! — 

She sang this " Song of the Shirt !" 

Thomas Hood. 

ADVICE. 

CHEER up, chillun, an' move yoh feet ! 
Doan' ack glum ter de folks yoh meet. 
Er smile's ez easy ez a sigh. 
An' it's no mo' wuhk foh ter laugh dan cry. 
So git in step wif de hurryin' tiirong 
Stid o' mopin' erlong. 

When de bother comes an' yoh chance seems bad, 
Yoh makes it wuss ef yoh face gits sad, 
'Case it stands ter reason, er hahd-luck tale 
When it comes ter winnin' yer friends will fail. 
So brush yoh gyahments an' hum er song, 
Stid o' mopin' erlong. 



BEAUTY AND GRANDEUR OF THE ALPS: 

CONTAINING 

BRILLIANT DESCRIPTIONS OF SWISS SCENERY. 



LAKE LEMAN (GENEVA) IN A CALM. 

LEAR, placid Leman ! thy contrasted lake, 

^^'ith the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing 
\\ hich warms me, with its stillness, to forsake 

Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. 
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 

To waft me from distraction ; once I loved 
Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring 

Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved. 

That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved. 

It is the hush of night, and all between 

Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear. 

Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen, 
Save darkened Jura, whose capt heights appear 

Precipitously steep ; and drawing near. 

There breathes a living fragrance from the shore. 

Of flowers yet fresh with childhood ; on the ear 
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar. 
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more. 

At intervals, some bird from out the brakes 
Starts into voice a moment, then is still. 
There seems a floating whisper on the hill. 
But that is fancy — for the starlight dews 
All silently their tears of love instil. 
Weeping themselves away. 




Lord Byron. 



LAKE LEMAN (GENEVA) IN A 5T0RM. 



THE sky is changed — and such a change ! Oh 
night. 
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous 
strong. 
Yet lovely in your strength, as in the light 

Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along. 
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among 
Leaps the live thunder ! Not from one lone 
cloud, 
But every mountain now hath found a tongue. 
And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, 
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud I 

Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way be- 
tween 
Heights which ajipear as lovers who have parted 
In hate, whose mining depths so intervene 

That they can meet no more, though broken 
hearted ! 



Though in their souls, which thus each other 
thwarted. 
Love was the very root of the fond rage 
Which blighted their life's bloom, and then de- 
parted : 
Itself expired, but leaving them an age 
Of years all winters — war within themselves to 
wage. 

Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath ckft his 
wa\'. 
The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his 
stand : 
For here, not one, but many, make their play, 
And fling their thunderbolts from hand to 

hand. 
Flashing and cast around : of all the band. 

The brightest through these parted hills hath 
forked 

341 



342 



BEAUTY AND GRANDEUR OF THE ALPS. 



His lightnings — as if he did understand, 
That in such gaps as desolation worked, 
There the hot shaft should blast whatever there- 
in lurked. 

And this is in the night : Most glorious night ! 

Thou wert not sent for slumber ! let me be 
A sharer in tliy fierce and far delight — 

A portion of the tempest and of thee! 
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, 

And the big rain comes dancing to the earth ! 
And now again 't is black — and now, the glee 

Of tlie loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth. 

As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's 
birth. 







THE MONARCH OF MOUNTAINS. 

OUR bitter disappointment in the fog was 
hard to be borne, and we sat brooding 
and mourning over the gloomy prospect 
for the day, and wondering what we had 
best do with ourselves, when suddenly, on turning 
toward the window, Mont Blanc was flashing in 
the sunshine. 

Such an instantaneous and extraordinary reve- 
lation of splendor we never dreamed of. The 
clouds had vanished, we could not tell where, and 
the whole illimitable vast of glory in this, the heart 
of Switzerland's Alpine grandeurs, was disclosed ; 
the snowy Monarch of Mountains, the huge gla- 
ciers, the jagged granite ] leaks, needles, and rough 
enormous crags and ridges congregated and shoot- 
ing up in every direction, with the long beautiful 
vale of Chamouny visible from end to end, far 
beneath, as still and shining as a picture ! Just 
over the longitudinal ridge of mountains on one 
side was the moon in an infinite depth of ether; it 
seemed as if we could touch it ; and on the other 
the sun was exulting as a bridegroom coming out 
of his chamber. The clouds still sweeping past 
us, now concealing, now partially veiling, and now 
revealing the view, added to its power by such 
sudden alternations. 

But the hour of most intense splendor in this 



Sky, mountains, rivers, winds, lake, lightnings ! 
ye ! 
With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a 
soul 
To make these felt and feeling, well may be 

Things that have made me watchful; the far 
roll 
Of your departing voices is the knoll 

Of what in me is sleepless — if I rest. 
But where of ye, oh tempests ! is the goal? 
Are ye like those within the human breast ? 
Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high 
nest? 

Lord Byron. 

day of glory was the rising of the clouds 
in Chamouny, as we could discern them 
like stripes of amber floating in an 
azure sea. They rested upon, and floated 
over the successive glacier gorges of the 
mountain range on either hand, like so 
many islands of the blest, anchored in 
mid-heaven below us ; or like so many 
radiant files of the white-robed heavenly 
host floating transversely across the val- 
ley. This extended through its whole 
length, and it was a most singular phe- 
nomenon ; for through these ridges of cloud we 
could look as through a telescope down into the 
vale and along to its farther end; but the inten- 
sity of the light flashing from the snows of the 
mountains and reflected in these fleecy radiances, 
almost as so many secondary suns, hung in the 
clear atmosphere, was well nigh blinding. 

The scene seemed to me a fit symbol of celestial 
glories ; and I thought if a vision of such intense 
splendor could be arrayed by the divine power out 
of mere earth, air and water, and made to assume 
such beauty indescribable at a breath of the wind, 
a movement of the sun, a slight change in the ele- 
ments, what mind could even dimly and distantly 
form to itself a conception of the splendors of the 
world of heavenly glory ! George B. Cheever. 

ONE OF THE GEMS OF SWITZERLAND. 

THE Lake of Geneva, called by the Romans 
Lacus Lemanus, has nearly the shape of a 
crescent, its horns being turned towards 
the south. It is the largest lake in Switzer- 
land, being fifty-six miles long; it is eight miles 
wide at the broadest part, and its greatest depth is 
twelve hundred and thirty feet. Its surface is 
about twelve hundred and thirty feet above the 
level of the sea, but the height often varies in the 
year more than fifty inches, being usually lowest 
in the winter, between January and April, and 
highest in August and part of July and Septem- 
ber, owing to the supplies then derived from the 
melting snows. 



BEAUTY AND GRANDEUR OF THE ALPS. 



343 



Besides these ])eriodical variations, the lake is 
subject to other more arbitrary changes of level, 
called seiches. This phenomenon consists of a 
sudden rise and fall uf the water in particular 
parts of the lake, independently of the agency of 
the wind or of any other apparent cause. It is 
most common in the vicinity of Geneva. During 
these oscillations the waters sometimes rise five 
feet, though the usual increase is not more than 
two ; it never lasts longer than twenty-five min- 
utes, but it is generally less. The cause of these 
seiches has not been explained with certainty, but 
they are observed to occur most commonly when 
the clouds are heavy and low. 

The lake never freezes over entirely, 
but in severe winters the lower extremity 
is covered with ice. The sand and mud 
brought down Ijy the Rhone and deposited 
around its mouth have caused considerable 
encroachments ujjoii its upper extremity. 

" Mon lac est le premier" are the 
words in which Voltaire has vaunted the 
beauties of the Lake of Geneva; and it 
must be confessed that, though it wants 
the gloomy sublimity of the Bay of Uri 
and the sunny softness of the Italian lakes, 
with their olive and citron groves, it has 
high claims to admiration. It also pos- 
sesses fireat varietv of scenery. The vine- 
covered slopes of Vaud contrast well with 
the abrupt, rocky precipices of Savoy. 
Near Geneva the hills subside, admitting 
an exquisite view of Mont Blanc, whose 
snowy summit, though sixty miles distant' is often 
reflected in its waters. 

" Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face. 
The mirror where the stars and mountains view 
The stillness of their aspect in each trace 
Its clear depth yields of their fair height and 
hue." 

At its uijper extremity it extends to the very 
base of the high Alps, which by their close vicinity 
give its scenery a character of magnificence. 

THE BATTLE OF MORQARTEN. 

THE wine month shone in its golden prime, 
And the red grapes clustering hung, 
But a deeper sound through the Switzers' clime, 
Than the vintage music rung — 
A sound tlirough vaulted cave, 
.\ sound through echoing glen. 
Like the hollow swell of a rushing wave; 
'Twas the tread of steel-girt men. 

But a band, the noblest band of all. 

Through the rude Morgarten strait, 
With blazoned streamers and lances tall. 

Moved onwards in princely state. 



They came with heavy chains 
For the race despised so long — 
But amidst his Alp-domains, 
The herdsman's arm is strong ! 

The sun was reddening the clouds of morn 

When they entered the rock-defile, 
And shrill as a joyous hunter's horn 
Their bugles rang the while. 
But on the misty height 
Where the mountain people stood 
There was stillness as of night. 
When storms at distance brood. 




There was stillness as of deep dead night, 

-And a pause — but not of fear — 
While the Switzers gazed on the gathering might 
Of the hostile shield and spear. 
On wound these columns bright 
Between the lake and wood. 
But they looked not to the misty height 
Where the mountain people stood. 

And the mighty rocks came bounding down 

Their startled foes among. 
With a joyous wliirl from the summit thrown. 
Oh ! the herdsman's arm is strong ! 
They came like lauwine hurled 
From Alp to Alp in play. 
When the echoes shout through the snowy world. 
And the pines are borne away. 

With their pikes and massy clubs they brake 

The cuirass and the shield. 
And the war-horse dashed to the reddening lake 
From the reapers of the field ! 
The field — but not of sheaves : 
Proud crests and pennons lay. 
Strewn o'er it thick as the birchwood leaves 
In the autumn tempest's way. 

Felicia D. Hemans. 



344 



BEAUTY AND GRANDEUR OF THE ALPS. 



THE GLACIER OF THE RHONE. 

ERE long he reached the magnificent glacier 
of the Rhone ; a frozen cataract, more than 
two thousand feet in height, and many 
miles broad at its base. It fills the whole valley 
between two mountains, running back to their 
summits. At the base it is arched, like a dome ; 
and above, jagged and rough, and resembles a 
mass of gigantic crystals, of a pale emerald tint, 
mingled with white. A snowy crust covers its 



white and sulphury, and immeasurably deep in 
appearance. The side we ascended was not of so 
precipitous a nature ; but, on arriving at the sum- 
mit, we looked down upon the other side ujjon a 
boiling sea of cloud, dashing against the crags on 
which we stood — these crags on one side quite 
perpendicular. In passing the masses of snow, I 
made a snowball, and pelted Hobhouse with it." 

Ye toppling crags of ice — 
Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws down 




4 



surface; but at every rent and crevice the pale 
green ice shines clear in the sun. Its shape is that 
of a glove, lying with the palm downwards, and 
the fingers crooked and close together. It is a 
gauntlet of ice, which, centuries ago, winter, the 
king of these mountains, threw down in defiance 
to the sun ; and year by year the sun strives in 
vain to lift it from the ground on the point of his 
glittering spear. H. W. Longfellow. 

A FAMOUS SUMMIT. 

APART of Byron's "Manfred" was either 
written or mentally composed on the 
Wengern Alp. He says in his Journal, 
" Heard the avalanches falling every five minutes 
nearly. The clouds rose from the opposite valley, 
curling up perpendicular precipices, like the foam 
of the ocean of hell during a spring tide — it was 



In mountainous o'erwhelming,comeand crush me! 
I hear ye momently above, beneath, 
Crash with a frequent conflict ; but ye pass, 
And only fall on things that still would live ; 
On the young flourishing forest, or the hut 
And hamlet of the harmless villager. 
The mists boil up around the glaciers ; clouds 
Rise curling far beneath me, white and sulphury, 
Like foam from the roused ocean of deep hell ! 

Lord Byron. 

THE BOY OF THE ALPS. 

LIGHTLY, Alpine rover. 
Tread the mountains over ; 
Rude is the path thou'st yet to go; 

Snow cliffs hanging o'er thee. 

Fields of ice before thee, 
While the hid torrent moans below. 
Hark, the deep thunder, 
Through the vales yonder ! 
'Tis the huge av'lanche downward cast ; 

From rock to rock 

Rebounds the shock. 
But courage, boy ! the danger's past. 

Onward, youthful rover. 

Tread the glacier over, 
Safe shalt thou reach thy home at last. 
On, ere light forsake thee. 
Soon will dusk o'ertake thee ; 



BEAUTY AND GRANDEUR OF THE ALPS. 



345 



O'er yon ice-bridge lies the way ! 

Now, for the risk prepare thee ; 

Safe it yet may bear thee, 
Though 'tttill melt in morning's ray. 

Hark, that dread howling ! 
'Tis the wolf prowling — - 
Scent of thy track the foe hath got ; 
And cliff and shore 
Resound his roar. 
But courage, boy — the danger s past! 
Watching eyes have found thee. 
Loving arms are round thee. 
Safe hast thou reached thy father's cot. 
Thomas Moore. 

MT. PILATUS. 

UNFORTUNATELY Pilatus 
is very attractive to clouds, 
otherwise the mountain is 
far more interesting than the Rigi, 
and the view from it in some re- 
spects finer, though a less complete 
panorama, and the grandeur of its 
own serrated outline, which forms 
so important a feature of the Rigi 
view, is of course wanting. The 
Lake of Lucerne lies open as far as 
Brunnen. 

According to a wild tradition of 
considerable antiquity, this moun- 
tain derives its name from Pilate, 
the wicked governor of Judfea, who, 
having been banished to Gaul by 
Tiberius, wandered about among 
the mountains, stricken by con- 
science, until he ended his misera- 
ble existence by throwing himself 
into a lake on the top of Pilatus. 
The mountain, in consequence, la- 
bors under a very bad reputation. 
From its position as an outlier, or 
advanced guard of the chain of the 
Alps, it collects the clouds which float over the 
plain from the west and north ; and it is remarked 
that almost all the storms which burst upon the 
Lake of Lucerne gather and brew on its summit. 

This almost perpetual assembling of clouds was 
long attributed by the superstitious to the unquiet 
spirit still hovering round the sunken body, which, 
when disturbed by any intruder, revenged itself 
by sending storm, and darkness, and hail on the 
surrounding district. So prevalent was the belief 
in this superstition, even down to times compara- 
tively recent, that the government of Lucerne for- 
bade the ascent of the mountain, and the natural- 
ist, Conrad Gessner, in 1555, was obliged to pro- 
vide himselt with a special order, removing the 



interdict in his case, to enable him to carry on his 
researches. 

According to some the name Pilatus is only a 
corruption of Pileafus (capped), arising from the 
cap of clouds which rarely quits its barren brow, 
and which is sometimes seen rising from it like 
steam from a caldron. 




MT. BLANC. 

THIS mountain is very steep and rocky ; it is 
exceedingly encumbered with its own im- 
mense ruins, which, in the course of ages, 
have rolled down from its summit and lodged 
either at its base or on its flanks. There are piles 
on piles of rocks, and some of them are of great 
dimensions; among which, to clear even a mule- 
path has evidently been a work of great labor and 
difficulty. The zigzag ascent winds around turns, 
which are very abrupt and frequent. They often 
pass along the edge of fearful precipices, where a 
false step would send the mule and the rider to 
destruction. 

It often seems as if the apparently perverse, but 



346 



BEAUTY AND GRANDEUR OF THE ALPS. 



really skillful little animal, was about to walk de- 
libeiately off, as, in order that his feet ma)- find 
their proper position, his head and neck are pro- 
jected beyond the road, and overhang the preci- 
pice. But do not interfere with the nice balancing 
of your mule ; he knows better than you can in- 
struct him how to proceed, and has not the least 
inclination to roll down the mountain, although 
the wrong pulling up of a reign, or the sudden 
change of position of a heavy man on the saddle, 
may force him and yourself to that result. Trust 
a good Providence, and the mule, as the instru- 
ment, and you will pass safely along the mountain 
steeps. Benjamin Silliman. 



present to tiie bodily sense, 
from my thought : entranced 



m 




SUNRISE IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNY. 

HAST thou a cliarm to stay the morning star 
In his steep course? So long he seems to 
jjause 
On thy bald, awful head, O sovran Blanc ! 
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 
Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful form ! 
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines. 
How silently ! Around thee and above. 
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, 
An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest it, 
Aswith a wedge ! But when I look again. 
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal slirine. 
Thy habitation from eternity ! 
O dread and silent mount ! I gazed upon thee. 



Till thou, stil 
Didst vanish 
prayer 
I worshiped the Invisible alone. 

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody. 
So sweet we know not we are listening to it, 
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my 

thought. 
Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy; 
Till the dilating soul, enrai)t, transfused, 
Into the mighty vision passing — there. 
As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven ! 

Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise 

Thou owest ! not alone these swell- 
ing tears 

Mute thanks and secret ecstacy. 
Awake, 

Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my 
heart, awake ! 

Green vales and icy cliffs, all join 
my h\ mn. 

Thou first and chief, sole sovran 

of the vale ! 
O, struggling with the darkness all 

the night, 
And visited all night by troops of 

stars. 
Or when they climb the sky or 

when they sink : 
Companion of the morning star at 

dawn, 
Thyself earth's rosy star, and of 

the dawn 
Co-herald : wake, O wake and utter 

praise ! 
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep 

in earth ? 
Who filled thy countenance with 

rosy light ? 
Who made thee parent of perpetual 

streams ? 

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! 
Who called )0u forth from night and utter death. 
From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks. 
Forever shattered and the same forever? 
Who gave you your invulnerable life. 
Your strength, your sjjeed, your fury and your joy. 
Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? 
And who commanded (and the silence came), 
Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest? 

Ye ice- falls ! )'e that from the mountain's brow 
Adown enormous ravines slope amain — 
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, 
And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge — 
Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! 



BEAUTY AND GRANDEUR OF THE ALPS. 



347 



Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven 
Beneath the keen, full moon ? Who bade the sun 
Clotlie you with rainbows? Who, with living 

flowers 
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet — 
God ! let the torrents, like a shout of nations. 
Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God ! 
God ! Sing, ye meadow streams, with gladsome 

voice ! 
Ye pine groves, with your soft and soul-like 

sounds ! 
And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow. 
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! 

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost I 
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest ! 
Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm ! 
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds! 
Ye signs and wonders of the elements ! 
Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise ! 

Thou, too, hoar Mount ! with thy sky-pointing 

peaks. 
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard. 
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure 

serene 
Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast — 
Thou too again, stupendous mountain ! thou 
That as I raise my head, a while bowed low 
In adoration, upward from thy base 
Slow traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears. 
Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud. 
To rise before me — rise, oh, ever rise. 
Rise like a cloud of incense from the earth ! 
Thou kingly spirit, throned among the hills, 
Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, 
Great hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky. 
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, 
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. 

S. T. Coleridge. 

THE AVALANCHE. 

ABOVE me are the Alps, 
The palaces of nature, whose vast walls 
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps. 
And throned eternity in icy halls 
Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls 

The avalanche — the thunderbolt of snow ! 
All that expands the spirit, yet appals, 
Gather around the summits, as to show 
How earth mav soar to heaven, yet leave vain man 
below. Lord Bvron. 

ENGLAND AND SWITZERLAND. 

TWO voices are there — one is of the sea. 
One of the mountains, each a mighty voice: 
In both from age to age thou didst rejoice. 
They were thy chosen music, liberty ! 

There came a tyrant, and with holy glee 
Thou fought'st against him — but hast vainly 
striven ; 



Thou from thy Alpine holds at length are driven 
Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. 

— Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft; 
Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left — 
For, high-souled maid, what sorrow would it be 

That mountain floods should thunder as before. 
And ocean bellow from his rocky shore, 
And neither awful voice be heard by thee ! 

William Wordsworth. 

AVALANCHES OF THE JUNQFRAU. 

ORDINARILY, in a sunny day at noon, the 
avalanches are falling on the Jungfrau 
about every ten minutes, with the roar of 
thunder, but they are much more seldom visible, 
and sometimes the traveler crosses the Wengern 
Alp without witnessing them at all. But we were 
so very highly favored as to see two of the grandest 
avalanches possible in the course of about an hour, 
between twelve o'clock and two. One cannot 
command any language to convey an adequate 
idea of their magnificence. You are standing far 
below, gazing up to where the great disc of the 
glittering Alp cuts the heavens, and drinking in 
the influence of the silent scene around. 

Suddenly an enormous mass of snow and ice, in 
itself a mountain, seems to move ; it breaks from 
the toppling outmost mountain ridge of snow, 
where it is hundreds of feet in depth, and in its 
first fall of perhaps two thousand feet, is broken 
into millions of fragments. As you first see the 
flash of distant artillery by night, then hear the 
roar, so here you may see the white flashing mass 
majestically bowing, then hear the astounding din. 
A cloud of dusty, misty, dry snow rises into the 
air from the concussion, forming a white volume 
of fleecy smoke, or misty light, from the bosom of 
which thunders forth the icy torrent in its second 
prodigious fall over the rocky battlements. The 
eye follows it delighted as it ploughs through the 
path which preceding avalanches have worn, till it 
comes to the brink of a vast ridge of bare rock, 
perhaps more than two thousand feet perpendicular. 

Then pours the whole cataract over the gulf 
with a still louder roar of echoing thunder, to 
which nothing but the noise of Niagara in its sub- 
limity is comparable. Nevertheless, you may think 
of the tramp of an army of elephants, of the roar 
of multitudinous cavalry marching to battle, of 
the whirlwind tread of ten thousand bisons sweep- 
ing across the prairie, of the tempest surf of ocean 
beating and shaking the continent, of the sound 
of torrent floods or of a numerous host, or of the 
voice of the Trumpet on Sinai, exceeding loud, 
and waxing louder and louder, so that all the 
people in the camp trembled, or of the rolling 
orbs of that fierce chariot, described by Milton, 
Under who.se burning wheels 
The steadfast empyrean shook throughout. 



348 



BEAUTY AND GRANDEUR OF THE ALPS. 



THE FALL OF THE STAUBBACH. 

STRANGERS, who expect in the Staubbach 
the roaring rapidity of a caiaract, will be 
disappointed ; but, in the opinion of many, 
this want is atoned for by other beauties. The 
friction of the rock, and the resistance of the air, 
retard the descent of the water, giving it, when 
seen in front, the appearance of a lace veil sus- 
pended from the precipice, and imitating, in its 
centre, the folds of the drapery. When very 





M 



full, it shoots out from the rock, and is bent 
by the wind into flickering undulations. Byron 
has described it admirably, both in prose and 
verse : 

"The torrent is in shape, curving over the 
rock, like the tail of a white horse streaming in 
the wind — such as it might be conceived would 
be that of the ' pale horse ' on which Death is 
mounted in the Apocalypse. It is neither mist 
nor water, but a something between both : its im- 
mense height gives it a wave or curve — a spreading 
here or condension there — wonderful and inde- 
scribable." 

"It is not noon — the sunbow's rays still arch 
The torrent with the many hues of heaven. 
And roll the sheeted silver's waving column 
O'er the crags headlong peri)endicular, 



And fling its lines of foaming light along. 
And to and fro, like the pale courser's tail, 
The giant steed to be bestrode by Death, 
As told in the Apocalypse." 

ARNOLD WINKELRIED. 

In the battle of Sempacli, in the fourteenth century, this 
martyr-patriot perceiving that there was no other means of 
breaking the heavy-armed Imes of the Austrians than by 
gathering as many of tlieir spears as he could grasp together, 
opened, by this means, a passage for his fellow-combatants, 
who, with hammers and hatchets, hewed down the mailed 
men-at-arms and won the victory. 

i ' TV yf AKE way for liberty! " he cried — 
Made way for liberty, and died ! 
In arms the Austrian phalanx stood, 

A living wall, a human wood ; 

Impregnable their front appears, 

All-horrent with projected spears. 

Opposed to these, a hovering band 

Contended for their fatherland, 

Peasants, whose new-found strength had broke 

From manly necks the ignoble yoke ; 

Marshaled once more at freedom's call. 

They came to conquer or to fall. 

And now the work of life and death 

Hung on the passing of a breath ; 

The fire of conflict burned within ; 

The battle trembled to begin ; 

Yet, while the Austrians held their ground. 

Point for assault was nowhere found ; 

Where'er the impatient Switzers gazed, 

The unbroken line of lances blazed ; 

That line 'twere suicide to meet, 

And perish at their tyrant's feet. 

How could they rest within their graves, 

To leave their homes the haunts of slaves? 

Would they not feel their children tread, 

With clanking chains, above their head? 

It must not be : this day, this hour 
Annihilates the invader's power ! 
All Switzerland is in the field- 
She will not fly, she cannot yield. 
She must not fall; her better fate 
Here gives her an immortal date. 
Few were the numbers she could boast, 
Yet every freeman was a host. 
And felt as 'twere a secret known 
That one should turn the scnle alone, 
While each unto himself was he 
On whose sole arm hung victory. 

It did depend on one, indeed ; 
Behold him — Arnold Winkelried ! 
There sounds not to the trump of fame 
The echo of a nobler name. 
Unmarked, he stood amid the throng. 
In rumination deep and long. 
Till vou might see, with sudden grace, 
The very thought come o'er his face ; 



BEAUTY AND GRANDEUR OF THE ALPS. 



349 



And by the motion of his form, 

Anticipate the bursting storm , 

And, by the uplifting of his brow, 

Tell where the bolt would strike, and how. 

But 'twas no sooner thought than done — • 



He bowed amidst them, like a tree. 
And thus made way for liberty. 

Swift to the breach his comrades fly — 

"Make way for liberty!" thev cry, 
And through the Austrian phalanx dart, 








*■. -V^^5^ 



^y^^K^J^ 



ml. 



tW/ii^ 




ON THE AXENSTRASSE— LAKE OF LUCERNE. 



The field was in a moment won I 
"Make way for liberty!" he cried, 

Then ran, with arms extended wide. 

As if his dearest friend to clasp ; 

Ten spears he swept within his grasp. 
"Make way for liberty ! " he cried ; 

Their keen points crossed from side to side ; 



As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart. 

While, instantaneous as his fall. 

Rout, ruin, panic seized them all; 

An earthquake could not overthrow 

A city with a surer blow. 

Thus Switzerland again was free — 

Thus death made way for liberty. 

James Montgomery. 







THE tawnv eagle seits his callow brood 
High on the cliff and feasts his young with 
blood 
On bnowdon s rocks or Orkney's wide domain 
\\ hose beetling cliffs o'erhang the western main, 
The loval bird his lonely kingdom forms, 
Amidst the gathering clouds and sullen storms ; 
Through the wide waste of air he darts his sight, 
And holds his sounding pinions poised for flight; 




^if^ 



With cruel eye premeditates the war, 
And marks his destined victim from afar ; 
Descending in a whirlwind to the ground, 
His pinions like the rush of waters sound: 
The fairest of the fold he bears away, 
And to his nest compels the struggling prey ; 
He scorns the game by meaner hunters tore, 
And dips his talons in no vulgar gore. 

Anna L. Bareauld. 





T-^^;.:J^'^,lii,iihJ>iuJi 



^:^fetii£fe.iiiii! 



350 



BEAUTY AND GRANDEUR OF THE ALPS. 



351 



LAKE LUCERNE AND WILLIAM TELL'S 
CHAPEL. 

OPPOSITE Brunnen the lake changes at once 
its direction and character. Along the 
ba}' of Uri, or of Fliielen as it is some- 
times called, it stretches nearly north and south, 
and its borders are tlie buttresses of mountains, 
higher than any of those wiiich overlook the other 
branches of the lake. On the east runs an almost 
unbroken precipice of the grandest dimensions, 



which connects Brunnen with Fliielen, a distance 
of about eight miles. It was commenced by the 
Swiss Government after the union of Savoy with 
France, when it was considered advisable to im- 
prove the communication between the Cantons. 
To reach Fliielen from Brunnen or Schwyz it was 
formerly usual to make a long circuit ; but there 
was a difficult path which was actually traversed 
by the French Oeneral Lecourbe, with his army, 
in pursuit of Suwarrow, in the night by torchlight, 
I 799. The want of boats to carry his troops across 




WIl.I.IAM TKLL'S CHAPEL— [,AKE LUCERNE. 



with twisted strata descending sheer to the water, 
here in places more than iioo feet deep. It is 
upon this that the superiority of tlie Lake of Lu- 
cerne to all other lakes dejiends. The vast mount- 
ains rising on every side and closing at the end, 
with their rich clothing of wood, the sweet soft 
spots of verdant ]iasture scattered at their feet, and 
sometimes on their breast, and the expanse of 
water, unbroken by islands, and almost undis- 
turbed by any signs of living men, make an im- 
pre.ssion which it would be foolish to attempt to 
convey by words. 

Until 1865 the east side of the Bay of Uri was 
impassable. It was first invaded by the telegraph 
wire, which ran from rock to rock, but it is now 
traversed by a magnificent road — the Axenstrasse, 



the lake compelled him to attempt this daring ex- 
ploit. 

At one point the precipices recede a little, leav- 
ing a ledge, formed by earth fallen from above, 
and sloping to the water. A few walnut and 
chestnut trees have here taken root, and the small 
space is occupied by a meadow conspicuous among 
the surrounding woods from the brightness of its 
verdure. This is Grijtli or Rutli, the spot pointed 
out by tradition as the rendezvous of the three 
founders of Swiss freedom —Werner Stauffacher, 
Erni and Walter Fiirst. These " honest conspira- 
tors " met in the dead of night, on this secluded 
spot, at the end of the year 1307, to form a plan 
for liberating their country from the oppression 
of the Austrians. They here "swore to be faith- 



352 



BEAUTY AND GRANDEUR OF THE ALPS. 



ful to each other, but to do no wrong to the Count 
of Habsburg, and not to mahreat his governors." 

These poor mountaineers, in the 14th century, 
furnish, perhaps, tlie only example of insurgents 
who, at the moment of revolt, bind themselves as 
sacredly to be just and merciful to their oppressors 
as to be faithful to each other ; and, we may add, 
who remained true to their intentions. The 
scheme thus concerted was carried into execution 
on the following New Year's day ; and such was 
the origin of the Swiss Confederation. 

According to popular belief, which everywhere 
in Switzerland connects political events with no- 
tions of religion, the oath of the Griitli was fol- 
lowed by a miracle, and three springs gushed from 
the spot upon which the confederates had stood. 
In token of this every stranger is led to a little 
hut built over the sources, and is invited to drink 
from them to the memory of the founders of Swiss 
freedom. 

Tell's Chapel is 300 feet above the lake, un- 
equalled for situation and view ; small, but com- 
fortable, except on Sunday, when it is often 
crowded. Here, according to the tradition. Tell 
sprang on shore from the boat in which Gessler 
was carrying him a prisoner to Kiissnacht, when a 
sudden storm on the lake had compelled him to re- 
move Tell's fetters, in order to avail himself of his 
skill as steersman. The chapel, an open arcade 
lined with rude and faded paintings, representing 
the events of the delivery of Switzerland, was 
erected by canton Uri in 1388, and, in the firm 
belief of tlie country people, to the memory of the 
brave archer. Once a year, on the first Friday 
after the Ascension, mass is said and a sermon 
preached in the chapel, which is attended by the 
inhabitants residing on the shores of the lake, who, 
repairing hither in boats, form an aquatic proces- 
sion. But there have been fierce disputes as to 
the truth of the story of Tell. 

It is not mentioned by Jean de Winterthur, a 
contemporary and minute narrator of the events of 
the revolution, nor by any writer for two centuries 



after their occurrence. It is first found in the 
chronicle of Melchior Russ, 1476. It is pretty 
clear that a Swiss named William Tell existed, and 
that he was held in honor by his countrymen, but 
there is nothing to prove his connection with the 
history of the Confederation. Exactly similar 
legends, or saga, of the loth century are found in 
Norway and Denmark. 

The view from Tell's chapel is exceedingly fine. 
The following are the remarks of Sir James Mack- 
intosh on this scene : " The combination of what 
is grandest in nature, with whatever is pure and 
sublime in human conduct, affected me in this 
passage (along the lake) more powerfully than 
any scene I had ever witnessed. Perhaps neither 
Greece nor Rome would have had such power 
over me. They are dead. The present inhabi- 
tants are a new race, who regard with little or no 
feeling the memorials of former ages. This is, 
perhaps, the only place in our globe where deeds 
of pure virtue, ancient enough to be venerable, are 
consecrated by the religion of the people, and con- 
tinue to command interest and reverence. No 
local superstition so beautiful and so moral any- 
where exists. The inhabitants of Thermopylae or 
Marathon know no more of these famous spots 
than that they are so many square feet of earth. 
England is too extensive a country to make Run- 
nymede an object of national affection. In coun- 
tries of industry and wealth the stream of eventb 
sweeps away these old remembrances. The soli- 
tude of the Alps is a sanctuary destined for the 
monuments of ancient virtue ; Grutli and Tell's 
chapel are as much reverenced by the Alpine pea- 
sants as Mecca by a devout Mussulman." 

SUNRISE AMONG THE ALPS. 

Such a sunrise ! The giant Alps seemed liter- 
ally to rise from their purple beds, and putting on 
their crowns of gold, to send up hallelujahs almost 
audible ! 

Washington Allston. 



CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH: 

CONTAINING 

CAPTIVATING SELECTIONS FOR THE YOUNG. 

THE DOLLS' WEDDING. 

'HERE'S a wedding to-day in the garden below, 
Where the pinks and marigolds stand in a row ; 
The prettiest wedding that ever was seen, 
I know, for I peeped through the trellisses green. 

The bride is a doll that is nearly as tall 

As the lily that leans to look over the wall. 

In a gown of pink silk she is gorgeously dressed, 

With a plume in her hat and a brooch on her breast. 

The groom is a sailor boy gallant and bold. 
In a cap and a jacket all braided with gold ; 
(Both dollies belong to a lassie of three, 
^Vhose face bubbles over with frolic and glee.) 

There are roses above, there are roses around, 
And the petals of roses lie thick on the ground, 
And the robin is there with his silvery flute. 
And the oriole clad in his flame-colored suit. 

Little Tiny, the terrier, married the pair. 
Sitting on a bench with a serious air, 
With grandmother's kerchief as clerical clothes, 
And grandfather's spectacles over his nose. 

A FISHIN'. 

WUNST we went a fishin' — me 
An' my pa an' ma, all three — 
When they was a picnic, 'way 
Out to Ranch's wood one day. 

An' they was a crick out there. 
Where the fishes is, and where 
Little boys 'taint big an' strong, 
Better have their folks along ! 




My pa he ist fished an' fished, 
An' my ma she said she wished 
Me an' her was home — an' pa 
Said he wished so wors'n ma ! 



Pa said if you talk, er say 
Anything, er sneeze, er play, 
Haint no fish, alive or ded. 
Ever goin' to bite ! he said. 



I 



Purt nigh dark in town when we 
Got back home ; an' ma says she 
Now she'll have a fish fer shore — 
And she buyed one at the store ! 

Nen at supper, pa he won't 
Eat no fish, an' says he don't 
Like 'em — an' he ponded me 
When I choked — ma, didn't he? 

James Whitcomb Riley. 
MATTIE'S WANTS AND WISHES. 



WANTS a piece of cal'co 
To make my doll a des&; 
I doesn't want a big piece; 
A vard'll do I ffuess. 



I wish you'd fred my needle, 
And find my fimble, too — 

I has such heaps o' sewin' 
I don't know what to do. 



23 



353 



354 



CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 



My Hepsy tored her apron 
A turn lin' down the stair, 

And Csesar's lost his pantnoons. 
And needs anozzer pair. 



She lets me wipe the dishe?. 
And see in grandpa's watch — 

I wish I'd free, four pennies 
To buy some butter-scotch. 




I wants my Maud a bonnet ; 

She hasn't none at all ; 
And Fred must have a jacket ; 

His ozzer one's too small, 
I want's to go to grandma's ; 

You promised me I might. 
I know she'd like to see me ; 

I wants to go to-night 



I wants some newer mittens — 

I wish you'd knit me some, 
'Cause most my finger freezes, 

They leaks so in the fum. 
I wored 'em out last summer, 

A puUin' George's sled ; 
I wish you wouldn't laugh so — 

It hurts me in my head. 

I wish I had a cookie ; 

I'm hungry's I can be. 
If you hasn't pretty large ones, 

You'd better bring me free. 



CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 



355 



I wish I had a p'ano — 

Won't you buy me one to keep? 
O, dear ! I feels so tired, 

I wants to go to sleep. 

Grace Gordon. 



"A^ 



A FELLOW'S MOTHER. 

FELLOWS mother,' said Fred the wise, 
With his rosy cheeks and his merry eyes, 
Knows what to do if a fellow gets hurt 
By a thump, or a bruise, or a fall in the dirt. 

A fellow's mother has bags and strings, 
Rags and buttons, and lots of things ; 
No matter how busy she is, she'll stop 
To see how well you can spin your top. 

She does not care, not much, I mean. 
If a fellow's face is not always clean ; 
And if your trousers are torn at the knee 
She can put in a patch that you'd never see. 

A fellow's mother is never mad. 

But only sorry if you are bad. 

And I'll tell you this, if you're only true. 

She'll always forgive whate'er you do. 

I'm sure of this," said Fred the wise, 
With a manly look in his laughing eyes, 
I'll mind my mother, quick, every day, 
A fellow's a baby that don't obey." 

M. E. Sangster. 



A 



THE LITTLE WHITE HEARSE. 

S the little white hearse went glimmering 



by- 



The man on the coal cart jerked his lines. 
And smutted the lid of either eye, 

And turned and stared at the business signs ; 
And the street car driver stopped and beat 
His hands on his shoulders and gazed up street 
Till his eye on the long track reached the sky — 
As the little white hearse went glimmering by. 

As the little white hearse went glimmering by — 

A stranger petted a ragged child 
In the crowded walk, and she knew not why. 

But he gave her a coin for the way she smiled ; 
And a bootiilack thrilled with a pleasure strange 
As a customer put back his change 
With a kindly liand and a grateful sigh — 
As the little white liearse went glimmering by. 

As the little white hearse went glimmering by — 

A man looked out of a window dim, 
And his cheeks were wet and his heart was dry — 

For a dead child even were dear to him. 
And he thought of his empty life and said : 
" T.,oveless alive, and loveless dead, 
Nor wife nor child in earth or sky !" — 
As the little white hearse went glimmering by. 



TWO LITTLE MAIDENS. 

A SORRY little maiden 
Is Miss Fuss-and- Feather, 
Crying for the golden moon, 
Grumbling at the weather; 
The sun will fade her gown. 
The rain spoil her bonnet. 
If she ventures out, 
And lets it fall upon it. 

A merry little maiden 

Is Miss Ra,'s-and-Tatters, 
Chatting of the twinkling stars 

And many other matters ; 
Dancing in the sunshine. 

Pattering through the rain. 
Her clothes never cause her 

A single thought or pain. 

Agnes Carr. 

A LIFE LESSON. 

THERE, little girl, don't cry. 
They've broken your doll, I know. 
And your tea set blue 
And your toy house, too, 
Are things of the long ago ; 
But childish troubles will soon pass by ; 
There, little girl, don't cry. 

There, little girl, don't cry; 

They've broken your heart, I know. 

And the rainbow gleams 

Of your youthful dreams 

Are things of the long ago ; 

But Heaven holds all for which you sigh ; 

There, little girl, don't cry. 



"M 



GRANDMA'S ANQEL. 

,\MMA said : ' Little one, go and see 
If grandma's ready to come to tea.' 
I knew I mustn't disturb her, so 
I stepped as gently along, tiptoe, 
And stood a moment to take a peep — 
And there was grandmother fast asleep ! 

" I knew it was time for her to wake ; 
I thought I'd give her a little shake. 
Or tap at her door or softly call ; 
But I hadn't the heart for that at all — 

" She looked so sweet and so quiet there. 
Lying back in her high arm-chair. 
With her dear white hair, and a little smile 
That means she's loving you all the while. 

" I didn't make a speck of noise ; 
I knew she was dreaming of the little boys 
And girls who lived with her long ago. 
And then went to heaven — she told me so. 

" I went up close, and I didn't speak 
One word, but I gave her on the cheek 



356 



CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 



The softest bit of a little kiss, 
Just in a whisper, and then said this : 
' Grandmother dear, it's time for tea.' 

" She opened her eyes and looked at me, 
And said : ' Why, pet, I have just now dreamed 
Of a little angel who came and seemed 




o 



To kiss me lovingly on my face,' 
She pointed right at the very place ! 

" I never told her 'twas only me : 

I took her hand, and vi'e went to tea." 

THE LITTLE BOY'S LAMENT. 

H ! why must I always be washed so clean 
And scrubbed and drenched for Sunday, 
When you know very well, for you've 
always seen, 
That I'm dirty again on Monday ? 



My eyes are filled with the lathery soap, 
Which adown my ears is dri])ping ; 

And my smarting eyes I can scarcely ope. 
And my lips the suds are sipping. 

It's down niy neck and up my nose. 

And to choke me you seem to be trying ; 

Tliat I'll shut my mouth you 
need not suppose, 
For how can 1 keep from 
crying ? 

You rub as hard as ever you 
can 
And your hands are hard to 
my sorrow ; 
No woman shall wash me 
when I'm a man. 
And I wish I was one to- 
morrow. 

FORGIVENESS. 

I SAT in the evening cool 
Of the heat-baked city 
street. 
Musing, and watching a little 
pair. 
Who played on the walk at 
my feet : 
A boy, the elder, of strong, 
rough mould ; 
His sister, a blossom sweet. 

When, just in the midst of 
their play. 
Came an angry cry, and a 
blow. 
That bruised the cheek of the 
little maid 
And caused bright tears to 
flow, 
And brought from my lips 
quick, sharp reproof 
On the lad who had acted 



And he stood by, sullen and 
hard, 
While the maid soon dried 
her tear, 
He looked at her with an angry eye ; 

She timidly drew near. 
Don't be cross, Johnny !" (a little sob), 
" Let me fordive 'oo, dear !" 

.^nd the cloud is passed and gone, 
And again in their play they meet. 

And the strong, rough boy wears a kinder mieii 
And brighter the maiden sweet, 

While a whisper has come from the heart of God 
To a man, a man on the street. 



CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 



357 



NUTTING. 

OUT in the pleasant sunshine of a bright 
October day, 
Rollicking, frolicking through the woods, 
scaring the birds away, 
Went a group of laughing girls and boys to play 

till the sun was set; 
Martha and Robbie, and Tom and Will, and 
Dolly, the household pet ! 

They "made believe" they were foragers bold, 

scouring the country o'er, 
To add to their scanty soldier fare from an enemy's 

fruitful store. 
And they charged on the squirrels' leafy homes 

till they beat a quick retreat ; 
While their precious hoards came rattling down at 

the noisy victors' feet. 

They played tag and follow my leader and scam- 
pered up and down. 

Covering each other in their glee with the leaves 
so crisp and brown, 

Till they huddled down to talk and rest and plan 
some pleasure new, 

While Martha unpacked the "goodies" for the 
hungry, bright-faced crew. 

" I'm too little to work," said Dolly, tossing her 

curls away, 
" You make the dinner, Mattie, dear — then I'll be 

papa, and pray ! 
I know just how he does it, 'cause I've looked 

through my fingers, so ; 
And God will hear me better out-doors than he 

would in the house, I know !" 

Then clasping her baby fingers, and bowing her 
leaf-crowned head, 

With its tangled floss half over her face, shading 
its flush of red, 

Sweetly the innocent little voice stole out on the 
waiting air. 

And up to the children's Father floated this child- 
ish prayer : 

" I thank you, God, 'way up in the sky, for these 

nice things to eat ; 
For this happy day in the pleasant woods, for the 

squirrels and birdies sweet ; 
For fathers and mothers to love us — only Robbie, 

his mother's dead ; 
But I guess you know all about that, God — you 

took her away, they said ! 

"If you please, don't make my mother die; 

I shouldn't know what to do ! 
I couldn't take care of myself at all; you'd have 

to get me, too ! 
Make all the days just as good as this, and don't 

let Robbie cry — 
That's all little Dolly knows to pray, our Father in 

heaven, good-by !" 



Then the sweet child voices rose anew like a 

beautiful refrain, 
And the birds in the brown leaves overhead caught 

up the merry strain, 
And twittered it back till the yellow sun was lost 

in the hazy west, 
When birds and children fluttered home, each to 

a sheltering nest. 

Lucy M. Blinn. 



T 



NAMING THE BABY. 

HEY gather in solemn council, 
The chiefs in the household band ; 
They sit in the darkened chamber, 
A conclave proud and grand ; 
They peer in the curtained chamber, 

And all with one voice exclaim, 
As they point to the new-found treasure 
" The baby must have a name !" 

They bring forth the names by dozens 

With many an anxious look; 
They scan all the tales and novels. 

They search through the good old Book ; 
Till the happy-voiced young mother, 

Now urging her prior claim. 
Cries out in the fondest accents, 

" O ! give him a pretty name." 

"His grandpa was Ebenezer, 

" Long buried and gone, dear soul," 
Says the trembling voice of grandma. 

As the quiet tear-drops roll. 
"Oh, call him Eugene Augustus," 

Cries the youngest of the throng; 
"Plain John," says the happy father, 

" Is an honest name and strong." 

And thus is the embryo statesman 

Or, perhaps, the soldier bold, 
Respecting his future title 

Left utterly out in the cold ; 
And yet it can matter but little 

To him who is heedless of fame, 
For no name will dishonor the mortal. 

If the mortal but honors the name. 

NAN. 

I KNOW a maid, a dear little maid ; 
If you knew her, you'd woo her, 
I'm sadly afraid ; 
So I think it as well 
Her name not to tell, 
Except that she's sometimes called " Nan." 

She has a hand, a soft little hand ; 
Did you feel it, you'd steal it, 
I quite understand ; 
So I think it as well 
To reveal not the spell 
That lurks in the fingers of Nan. 



358 



CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 



Bright are her eyes, her clear hazel eyes ; 
If their dance should entrance you 
I'd feel no surprise ; 
So I think it as well 
The whole truth to tell ; 
She's my own baby daughter, my Nan. 

Cora Stuart Whf.kler. 




There is a great comfort to a boy in the amount 
of work he can get rid of doing. It is sometimes 
astonishing how slow he can go on an errand. 
Perhaps he couldn't explain, himself, why, when 
he is sent to the neighbor's after yeast, he stops to 
stone the frogs. He is not exactly cruel, but he 
wants to see if he can hit 'em. It is a curious 
fact about boys, that two will be 
a great deal slower in doing any- 
thing than one. Boys have a great 
power of helping each other do 
nothing. But say what you will 
about the general usefulness of 
boys, a farm without a boy would 
very soon come to grief. He is 
always in demand. 

In the first place, he is to do all 
the errands, go to the store, the 
post-office, and to carry all sorts of 
messages. He would like to have 
as many legs as a wheel has 
spokes, and rotate about in the 
same way. This he sometimes 
tries to do, and people who have 
seen him "turning cart-wheels" 
along the side of the road have 
supposed he was amusing himself 
and idling his time. He was 
only trying to invent a new mode 
of locomotion, so that he could 
economize his legs and do his 
errands with greater dispatch. 
Leap-frog is one of his methods 
of getting over the ground quickly. 
He has a natural genius for com- 
bining pleasure with business. 
Charles Dudley Warner 

THE CHICKEN'S MISTAKE. 



A 



BEING A BOY. 

ONE of the best things in the world to be is 
a boy ; it requires no experience, though 
it needs some practice to be a good one. 
The disadvantage of the position is that 
he does not la.st long enough. It is soon over. 
Just as you get used to being a boy, ycu have to 
be something else, with a good deal more work to 
do, and not half so much fun. And yet every boy 
is anxious to be a man, and is very uneasy with the 
restrictions that are ]:iut upon him as a boy. There 
are so many bright spots in the life of a farm boy 
that I sometimes think I should like to live the 
life over again, I should almost be willing to be 
a girl if it were not for the chores. 



LITTLE downy chick one 
day 
Asked leave to go on the 
water, 
Where she saw a duck with her 
brood at play 
Swimming and splashing about her. 

Indeed, she began to peep and cry. 

When her mother wouldn't let her, 
" If the ducks can swim, then why can't I? 

Are they any bigger or better?" 

Then the old hen answered, " Listen to me, 

And hush your foolish talking ; 
Just look at your feet, and you will see 

They were only made for walking." 

But chicky wistfully eyed the brook, 

And didn't half believe her; 
For she seemed to say, by a knowing look. 

Such stories couldn't deceive her. 




THE MERRY BOATING PARTY. 



359 



360 



CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 



And as her mother was scratching the ground, 

She muttered lower and lower, 
" I know I can go there and not be drowned. 

And bo I think I'll show her." 

Then she made a plunge where the stream was 
deep, 

And saw too late her blunder ; 
For she had hardly time to peep 

When her foolish head went under. 

And now I hope her fate will show 

That child my story reading. 
That those who are older sometimes know 

What you will do well in heeding : 

That each content in his place should dwell. 

And envy not his brother. 
For any part that is acted well 

Is just as good as another ; 

For we all have our proper spheres below. 
And this is a truth worth knowing : 

You will come to grief if you try to go 
Where you never were made lor going. 

PHdBE Carv. 

THE MERMAN'S SONG. 

COME away, children ; 
Come, children, come down, 
The hoarse wind blows colder, 
Lights shine in the tow-n. 
She will start from her slumber 
When gusts shake the door; 
She will hear the winds howling, 

Will hear the waves roar. 
We shall see, while above us 
The waves roar and whirl, 
A ceiling of amber, 

A pavement of pearl. 
Singing, " Here came a mortal, 

But faithless was she; 

And alone dwells forever 

The king of the sea." 

But, children, at midnight. 

When soft the winds blow. 
When clear falls the moonlight, 

When spring tides are low. 
When sweet airs come seaward 

From heaths starred with bloom, 
And high rocks throw mildly 

On the blanched sands a gloom, 
Up the still glistening beaches. 

Up the creeks we will hie, 
Over banks of bright seaweed 

The ebb tide leaves dry. 
We will gaze, from the sand-hills. 

At the white, sleeping town, 
At the church on the hillside, 

And then come back down. 



Singing, " There dwells a loved one, 

But cruel is she ; 
She left lonely forever 

The king of the sea." 

Matthew Arnold. 

DREAMS. 

SOME tiny elves, one evening, grew mischiev- 
ous, it seems. 
And broke into the store-room where the 
Sandman keeps his dreams. 
And gathered up whole armfuls of dreams all 

bright and sweet. 
And started forth to peddle them adown the vil- 
lage street. 

Oh, you would never, never guess how queerly 

these dreams sold ; 
Why, nearly all the younger folk bou^^^dit dreams 

of being old ; 
And one wee chap in curls and kilts, a j^;entle little 

thing, 
Invested in a dream about an awful pirate king. 

A maid, who thought her pretty name old-fash- 
ioned and absurd. 

Bought dreams of names the longest and the 
queerest ever heard ; 

And, strange to say, a lad, who owned all sorts of 
costly toys, 

Bought dreams of selling papers with the raggedest 
of boys. 

And then a dream of summer and a barefoot boy 

at play 
Was bought up very quickly by a gentleman (|uite 

gray ; 
And one old lady — smiling through the grief she 

tried to hide — 
Bought bright and tender visions of a little girl 

who died. 

A ragged little beggar girl, with weary, wistful 

gaze. 
Soon chose a Cinderella dream, with jewels all 

ablaze — 
Well, it wasn't many minutes from the time they 

came in sight 
Before the dreams were all sold out and the elves 

had taken flight. 

BE TRUE. 

YOUNG friends, to whom life's early days 
Are bright with promise all, 
And to whose view the glowing rays 
Of hope unclouded fall ; 
To counsel each to choose the good. 
Throughout the coming years, I would 

A precept give to you : 
Observe, if you success would win. 
The wealth of worth embodied in 
Two little words : Be true. 



CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 



361 



Be true to right : let justice still 

Her even balance claim ; 
Unawed, unbribed, through good or ill, 

Make rectitude your aim. 
Unswayed by prejudice, thy mind 
Each day submitted claims will find 

To champion or deny ; 
Then cast, according to thy light, 
Thy influence on the side of right, 

Though all the world goes by. 



Be true to truth : the proudest name 

That sterling worth may win 
Is soiled and tarnished past reclaim 

Where falsehood enters in. 
No gem that arduous toil may find, 
In learning's fields adorns the mind 

Like truth's pure, shining ray. 
And from her presence error's crowds 
Of worshippers disperse like clouds 

Before the rising day. 




LITTLE JACK. 



H 



E wore a pair of tattered pants, 
A ragged roundabout, 



And through the torn crown of his hat 
A lock of hair stuck out; 
He had no shoes upon his feet. 

No shirt upon his back ; 
His home was on the friendless street, 
His name was " Little Jack." 

One day a toddling baby-boy 

With head of curly hair 
Escaped his loving mother's eyes, 

Who, busv with her care, 
Forgot the little one, that crept 

Upon the railroad near 
To iilay with the bright pebbles there, 

Without a thought of fear. 

But see ! around the curve there comes 

A swiftly flying train — 
It rattles, roars ! the wliistle shrieks 

With all its might and main ; 



The mother sees her child, but stands 
Transfixed with sudden fright ! 

The baby clasps his little hands 
And laughs with low delight. 

Look ! look ! a tattered figure flies 

Adown the railroad track ! 
His hat is gone, his feet are bare ! 

'Tis ragged " Little Jack !" 
He grasps the child and from the track 

The babe is safely tossed — 
A slip! a cry ! the train rolls by — 

Brave " Little Jack " is lost. 

They found his mangled body there, 

Just where he slipped and fell, 
And strong men wept who never cared 

For him when he was well. 
If there be starry crowns in heaven 

For little ones to wear. 
The star in " Little Jack's " shall shine 

As bright as any there ! 

Eugene J. Haix. 



362 



CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 




WHAT BESSIE SAW. 

THIS morning, when all the rest had gone down, 
I stood by the window to see 
The beautiful pictures, which there in the night 
Jack Frost had been painting for me. 

There were mountains, and windmills, and bridges, and boats, 

Some queer looking-houses and trees ; 
A hammock that hung by itself in the air, 

And a giant cut off at the knees. 

Then there was a steeple, so crooked and high, 

I was thinking it surely must fall. 
When right down below it I happened to spy 

The loveliest thing of them all. 

The cutest and cunningest dear little girl ! 

I looked at her hard as I could, 
And she stood there so dainty — and looked back at me — 

In a little white ulster and hood. 



"Good morning," I whispered, for all in a flash 
I knew 'twas Jack Frost's little sister, 

I was so glad to have her come visiting me, 
I reached up quite softly and kissed her. 

Then can you believe it ? the darling was gone ! 

Kissed dead in that one little minute. 
I never once dreamed that a kiss would do that. 

How could there be any harm in it? 



And I am so sorry ! for though I have looked 
Fifty times at that window since then. 

Half hoping to see her once more, yet I know 
She can never come back again. 

And — it may be foolish — but all through the day 
I have felt — and I knew that I should — 

Just as if I had killed her, that dear little girl ! 
In the little white ulster and hood. 

C. W. Bronson. 



LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 



COME back, come back together, 
All ye fancies of the past, 
Ye days of April weather, 
Ye shadows that are cast 

By the haunted hours before ! 
Come back, come back, my childhood ; 

Thou art summoned by a spell 
From the green leaves of the wildwood, 
From beside the charmed well, 
For Red Riding Hood, the darling, 
The flower of fairy lore ! 

The fields were covered over 

With colors as she went ; 
Daisy, buttercup, and clover 

Below her footsteps bent ; 

Summer shed its shining store; 
She was happy as she pressed them 

Beneath her little feet ; 
She plucked them and caressed them ; 

They were so very sweet, 

They had never seemed so sweet before, 
To Red Riding Hood, the darling, 
The flower of fairy lore. 

How the heart of childhood dances 

Upon a sunny day ! 
It has its own romances. 



And a wide, wide world have they! 
A world where Phantasie is king, 
Made all of eager dreaming ; 

When once grown up and tall — 
Now is the time for scheming — 

Then we shall do them all! 

Do such pleasant fancies spring 
For Red Riding Hood, the darling, 

The flower of fairy lore ? 

She seems like an ideal love. 

The poetry of childhood shown. 

And yet loved with a real love, 
As if she were our own — 

A younger sister for the heart ; 

Like the woodland pheasant, 
Her hair is brown and bright ; 

And her smile is pleasant, 
With its rosy light, 
Never can the memory part 

With Red Riding Hood, the darling, 
The flower of fairy lore. 

Did the painter, dreaming 

In a morning hour. 
Catch the fairy seeming 

Of this fairy flower? 

Winning it with eager eyes 



\ 



I 




BLOWING SOAP BUBBLES. 



363 



364 



CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 



From the old enchanted stories, 
Lingering with a long delight 
On the unforgotten glories 
Of the infant sight ? 

Giving us a sweet surprise 
In Red Riding Hood, the darling, 
The flower of fairy lore ! 

Too long in the meadow staying, 

Where the cowslip bends, 
With the buttercuj)s delaying 
As with early friends, 

Did the little maiden stay. 
Sorrowful the tale for us ; 

We, too, loiter 'mid life's flowers, 
A little while so glorious, 
So soon lost in darker hours. 

All love lingering on their way, 
Like Red Riding Hood, the darling, 
The flower of fairy lore. 

Letitia E. Landon. 

THE HIGHWAYMAN. 

DID you ever meet a robber, with a pistol and 
a knife, 
Whose prompt and cordial greeting was, 
"Your money or your life; " 
Who, while you stood a-trembling, with your 

hands above your head, 
Took your gold, most grimly offering to repay you 
in cold lead ? 

Well, I once met a robber ; I was going home to 

tea; 
The way was rather lonely, though not yet too dark 

to see 
That the sturdy rogue who stopped me there was 

very fully armed — 
But I'm honest in maintaining that I did'nt feel 

alarmed. 

He was panting hard from running, so I, being 

still undaunted. 
Very boldly faced the rascal and demanded what 

he wanted ; 
I was quite as big as he was, and I was not out of 

breath. 
So I didn't fear his shooting me, or stabbing me 

to death. 

In answer to my question the highwayman raised 

an arm 
And pointed it straight at me — though I still felt 

no alarm; 
He did not ask for money, but what he said was 

this : 
" You cannot pass, papa, unless you give vour bov 

a kiss!" 

Allen G. Bicelow. 



_ WHAT BABY SAID. 

I AM here. And if this is what they call the 
world, I don't think much of it. It's a very 
flannelly world, and smells of paregoric aw- 
fully. It's a dreadful light world, too, and makes 
me blink, I tell you. And I don't know wiiat to 
do with my hands; I tliink I'll dig my fists in my 
eyes. No, I won't. I'll scratch at the corner of 
my blanket and chew it up, and then I'll holler; 
whatever happens, I'll holler. And the more pare- 
goric they give me, the louder 111 yell. That old 
nurse puts the spoon in the corner of my mouth, 
sidewise like, and keeps tasting my milk herself all 
the while. She spilt snuff in it last night, and 
when I hollered she trotted me. That comes of 
being a two-days-old baby. Never mind ; when 
I'm a man, I'll pay her back good. 

There's a pin sticking in me now, and if I say a 
word about it, I 11 be trotted or fed ; and I would 
rather have catnip-tea. I'll tell you who I am. I 
found out to-day. I heard folks say, " Hush ! 
don't wake up Emeline'sbaby ;" and I suppose that 
pretty, white-faced woman over on the pillow is 
Emeline. 

No, I was mistaken ; for a chap was in here just 
now and wanted to see Bob's baby ; and looked at 
me and said I was a funny little toad, and looked 
just like Bob. He smelt of cigars. I worider 
who else I belong to ! Yes, there's another one — • 
that's "Gamma." "It was Ganmia's baby, so it 
was." I declare, I do not know who I belong to; 
but I'll holler, and maybe I'll find out. There 
comes snuffy with catnip-tea. I'm going to sleep. 
I wonder why my hands won't go where I want 
them to ! 

THE SQUIRREL'S LESSON. 

TWO little squirrels, out in the sun. 
One gathered nuts, and the other had none; 
"Time enough yet," his constant refrain ; 
" Summer is still only just on the wane." 

Listen, my child, while I tell you his fate : 

He roused him at last, but he roused him too late; 

Down fell the snow from a pitiless cloud. 

And gave little squirrel a spotless white shroud. 

Two little boys in a school-room were placed, 
One always perfect, the other disgraced ; 
" Time enough yet for my learning," he said ; 
" I will climb, by and by, from the foot to the head."' 

Listen, my darling; their locks are turned gray: 

One as a Governor sitteth to-day ; 

The other, a pauper, looks out at the door 

Of the almshouse, and idles his days as of yore. 

Two kinds of people we meet every day : 
One is at work, the other at ])lay, 
Living uncared for, dying unknown — 
The busiest hive hath ever a drone. 



CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 



3(jr. 



BOYS WANTED. 

BOYS of spirit, l)oys of will, 
Boys of muscle, brain, and power 
Fit to cope with anything. 
These are wanted every hour. 

Not the weak and whining drones, 

Who all troubles magnify; 
Not the watchword of "I can't," 

But the nobler one, " I'll try." 

Do whate'er you have to do 

With a true and earnest zeal ; 
Bend your sinews to the task, 

" Put vour shoulder to the wheel." 



Tiiough your duty may be hard. 
Look not on it as an ill ; 

If it be an honest task, 
Do it with an honest will. 

In the workshop, on the farm, 
At the desk, where'er you be, 

From your future efforts, boys. 
Comes a nation's destiny. 



" Sweet — sweet !" 

All the birds are singing ; 
" Sweet — sweet !" 

The blossom-bells are ringing ; 
Kisses from the red rose — 

Kisses from the white, 
Kissing you good-morning 
And kissing you good-night ! 



THE RIGHT WAY. 

T home, abroad, by day or night, 
In country or in town. 
If asked to drink, we'll smile and 
turn 
Our glasses upside down. 



A 



The ruby wine, or bright champagne. 

Or lager rich and brown. 
We'll never touch, but always turn 

Our glasses upside down. 

If friends shall say 'tis good for health, 

'Twill all your troubles drown, 
AVe'U dare to differ and to turn 

Our glasses upside down. 

Companions gay, and maidens fair, 

And men of high renown. 
May sneer; but never mind, we'll turn 

Our glasses upside down. 

We mean to conquer in this strife. 

To win the victor's crown, 
And so we'll always bravely turn 

Our glasses upside down. 

Helen E. Brown. 

A SONG OF GOLDEN CURLS. 

STAY a little, golden curls^twinkling eyes of 
blue ; 
Stay and see the violets, for they are kin to you; 
Linger where the frolic winds around the gardens 

race. 
Cheeks like lovely mirrors where the red rose seeks 
its face. 




Stay a little, golden curls — brightening eyes of blue, 
The violets are listening for the lovely steps of you. 
The Avhite rose bids you welcome, the red rose calls 

you sweet, 
.^nd the daisies spread a carpet for the falling of 
your feet. 
" Sweet— sweet !" 

All the birds are singing ; 
" Sweet — sweet !" 

The blossom-bells are ringing ; 
Kisses from the red rose — 

Kisses from the white, 
Kissing you good-morning 
And kissing you good-night ! 

Frank L. Stanton. 



366 



CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 



THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN. 

HAMELIN Town's in Brunswick, 
By famous Hanover City ; 
The river Weser, deep and wide, 

Washes its wall on the southern side; 
A pleasanter spot you never spied; 
But when begins my ditty, 

Almost five hundred years ago. 
To see the townsfolk suffer so 
From vermin was a jiit}'. 



An hour they sat in counsel — 

At length the Mayor broke silence : 
" For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell ; 

I wish I were a mile hence ! 
It's easy to bid one rack one's brain — 
I'm sure my poor head aches again, 
I've scratched it so, and all in vain. 
O for a trap, a trap, a trap !" 
Just as he said this, what should hap 
At the chamber door but a trentle tap ? 




I 

I 



Rats! 
They fought the dogs, and killed the cats. 

And bit the babies in the cradles. 
And ate the cheeses out of the vats, 

And licked the soup from the cook's own 
ladles. 
Split open the kegs of salted sprats. 
Made nests inside men's Sunday hats. 
And even spoiled the women's chats, 

By drowning their speaking 

With shrieking and squeaking 
In fifty different sharps and flats. 

At last the people in a body 

To the Towr Hall came flocking : 
" 'Tis clear, "cried they, "our Mayor's a 
noddy ; 
And as for our Corporation — shocking 
To think we buy gowns lined with ermine 
For dolts that can't or won't determine 
What's best to rid us of our vermin !" 
At this the Mayor and Corporation 
Quaked with a mighty consternation. 



"Bless us," cried the Mayor, "what's that?" 

" Come in !" — the Mayor cried, looking bigger ; 

And in did come the strangest figure; 

He advanced to the council-table : 

And, "Please your honors," said he, "I'm 

able. 
By means of a secret charm, to draw 
All creatures living beneath the sun, 
That creep or swim or fly or run. 
After me so as you never saw ! 

Yet," said he, " ]:ioor piper as I am, 
In Tartary I freed the Cham, 
Last June, from his huge swarm of gnats ; 
I eased in Asia the Nizam 
Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats ; 
.^nd as for what your brain bewilders — 
If I can rid your town of rats, 
Will you give me a thousand guilders?" 
"One? fifty thousand !" — was the exclamation 
Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation. 

Into the street the piper stept, 
Smiling first a little smile, 



CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 



367 



As if he knew what magic slept, 

In his quiet pipe the while ; 
Then, like a musical adept, 
To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, 
And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled, 
Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled ; 
And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered. 
You heard as if an army muttered ; 
And the muttering grew to a grumbling; 
And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling; 
And out of the houses the rats came tumbling. 
Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, 
Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats. 
Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, 

Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, 
Cocking tails and pricking whiskers; 

Families by tens and dozens. 
Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives- 
Followed the piper for their lives. 
From street to street he piped advancing. 
And step for step they followed dancing, 
Until they came to the river Weser 
Wherein all plunged and perished 
Save one, who, stout as Julius Cajsar, 
Swam across and lived to carry 
(As he the manuscript he cherished) 
To Rat-land home his commentary, 
Which was: "At the first shrill notes of the 

pipe, 
I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, 
And putting apples, wondrous ripe. 
Into a cider-press's gripe — 
And a moving away of picklc-tub-boards, 
And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards. 
And a drawing the corks of train-oil flasks. 
And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks ; 
And it seemed as if a voice 
(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery 
Is breathed) called out, O rats, rejoice ! 
The world is grown to one vast drysaltery ! 
So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon. 
Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon! 
And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon. 
All ready staved, like a great sun shone 
Glorious, scarce an inch before me. 
Just as methought it said, Come, bore me ! — 
I found the Weser rolling o'er me." 

You should have heard the Hamelin people 
Ringing the bells till tliey rocked the steeple ; 
"Go," cried the Mayor, "and get long poles ! 
Poke out the nests and block up the holes ! 
Consult with carpenters and builders 
And leave in our town not even a trace 
Of the rats ! " — when suddenly, up the face 
Of the piper perked in the market-place, 
With a " First, if you please, my thousand 
guilders ! " 

A thousand guilders ! The Mayor looked blue ; 
So did the Corporation, too. 



For council-dinners made rare havoc 

With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock ; 

And half the money would replenish 

Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish. 

To pay this sum to a wandering fellow 

With a gipsy coat of red and yellow ! 

"Beside," quoth the Mayor, with a knowing 

wink, 
" Our business was done at the river's brink ; 
We saw with our eyes the vermin sink. 
And what's dead can't come to life, I think. 
So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink 
From the duty of giving you something for 

drink. 
And a matter of money to put in your poke ; 
But as for the guilders, what we spoke 
Of them, as you very well know, was in joke. 
Beside, our losses have made us thrifty ; 
A thousand guilders ! Come, take fifty ! " 

The piper's face fell, and he cried, 
" No trifling ! I can't wait ! beside, 
I've promised to visit by dinner time 
Bagdat, and accept the prime 
Of the head cook's pottage, all he's rich in, 
For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen. 
Of a nest of scorpions no survivor — 
With him I proved no bargain-driver ; 
With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver! 
And folks who put me in a passion 
May find me pipe to another fashion." 

"How?" cried the Mayor, "d'ye think I'll 

brook 
Being worse treated than a cook ? 
Insulted by a lazy ribald 
With idle pipe and vesture piebald ? 
You threaten us, fellow ? Do your worst, 
Blow your pipe there till you burst ! " 

Once more he stept into the street ; 
And to his lips again 

Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane ; 
And ere he blew three notes (such sweet 

Soft notes as yet musician's cunning 
Never gave the enraptured air) 

There was a rustling that seemed like a bus- 
tling 

Of merry crowds justling at jiitching and hust- 
ling ; 

Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clat- 
tering. 

Little hands clapping, and little tongues chat- 
tering ; 

And, like fowls in a f;irm-yard when barley is 
scattering, 

Out came the children running : 

All the little boys and girls, 

With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls. 

And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, 



368 



CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 



Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after 

The wonderful music with shouting and laughter. 

The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood 

As if they were changed into blocks of wood, 

Unable to move a step, or cry 

To the children merrily skipping by — 

And could only follow with the eye 

That joyous crowd at the piper's back. 

But how the Mayor was on the rack, 

And the wretched Council's bosoms beat 

As the piper turned from the High Street 

To where the VVeser rolled its waters 

Right in the way of their sons and daughters ! 

However, he turned from south to west 

And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed, 

And after him the children pressed ; 

Great was the joy in every breast. 

" He never can cross that mighty top ! 

He's forced to let the piping drop. 

And we shall see our children stop ! ' ' 

When, lo, as they reached the mountain's side, 
A wondrous portal opened wide. 
As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed ; 
And the piper advanced and the children fol- 
lowed ; 
And when all were in, to the very last, 
The door in the mountain-side shut fast. 
Did I say all ? No ! One was lame. 
And could not dance the whole of the way ; 
And in after years, if you would blame 
His sadness, he was used to say — 
" It's dull in our town since my playmates left, 
I can't forget that I'm bereft 
Of all the pleasant sights they see. 
Which the piper also promised me ; 
For he led us, he said to a joyous land, 
Joining the town and just at hand. 
Where waters gushed and fruit trees grew, 
And flowers put forth a fairer hue. 
And everythmg was strange and new ; 
The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here. 
And their dogs outran our fallow deer, 
And honey-bees had lost their stings. 
And horses were born with eagles' wings ; 
And just as I became assured 
My lame foot would be speedily cured, 
The music stopped and I stood still, 
And found myself outside the Hill, 
Left alone against my will, 
To go now limping as before, 
And never hear of that country more! " 

Robert Browning. 

THE CLUCKING HEN. 

i 4 T Tl 7 ILL you take a walk with me, 

VV My little wife, to-day ? 
'' • There's barley in the barley-field. 
And hav-seed in the hay." 
" Oh, thank you !" said the clucking hen, 



" I've something else to do ; 
I'm busy sitting on my eggs — 
I cannot walk with you." 

"Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck!" 

Said the clucking hen ; 
" My little chicks will soon be hatched ; 

I'll think about it then." 
The clucking hen sat on her nest — 

She made it in the hay — 
And warm and snug beneath her breast 

A dozen white eggs lay. 

Crack, crack ! went all the eggs — 

Out drop the chickens small. 
" Cluck !" said the clucking hen ; 

" Now I have you all. 
Come along, my little chicks ! 

I'll take a walk with_)w/." 
"Halloo !" said the barn-door cock, 

" Cock-a-doodle-doo !" 

ONE THING AT A TIME. 



w 



ORK while you work. 
Play while you play. 

That is the way to be 
Cheerful and gay. 

All that you do, 

Do with your might. 
Things done by halves 

Are never done risrht. 



One thing each time. 
And that done well. 

Is a very good rule, 
As many can tell. 

Moments are useless, 

Trifled away, 
So work while you work, 

And play while you play. 

BABYLAND. 

HOW many miles to Babyland ? 
Any one can tell ; 
Up one flight, 
To your right — 
Please to ring the bell. 

What can you see in Babyland ? 
Little folks in white, 
Downy heads, 
Cradle beds. 
Faces pure and bright. 

What do they do in Babyland? 
Dream and work and play, 

Laugh and crow. 

Shout and grow, 
Jolly times have they. 



CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 



36:) 



What do they say in Baby land? 
W'hy, the oddest things ; 
Might as well 
Try to tell 
What a birdie sings. 

Who is the queen of Babyland ? 
Mother, kind and sweet ; 

And lier love, 

Born above, 
Guides the little feet. George Cooper. 

THE LITTLE CUP-BEARER. 

THE little cup-bearer entered the room, 
After the banquet was done ; 
His eyes were like the skies of May, 

Aglow with a cloudless sun ; 
Kneeling beside his master's feet, 

The feet of the noble king. 
He raised the goblet, " Drink, my liege. 
The offering that I bring." 

"Nay, nay," the good king smiling said, 

" But first a faithful sign 
That thou bringest me no poison draught : 

Taste thou, my page, the wine." 
Then gently, firmly, spoke the lad, 

" My dearest master, no, 
Though at thy lightest wish my feet 

Shall gladly come and go." 

"Rise up, my little cup-bearer," 

The king astonished cried ; 
" Rie up and tell me straightway, why 

Is my request denied? " 
The young page rose up slowly. 

With sudden paling cheek, 
While courtly lords and ladies 

Waited to hear him speak. 

" My father sat in princely halls. 

And tasted wine with you ; 
He died a wretched drunkard, sire — " 

The brave voice tearful grew, 
" I vowed to my dear mother 

Beside her dying bed, 
That for her sake I would not taste 

The tempting poison red." 

" Away with this young upstart ! " 

The lords impatient cry. 
But spilling slow the purple wine, 

The good king made reply ; 
" Thou shalt be my cup-bearer, 

And honored well," he said, 
*' But see thou bring not wine to me 

But water pure instead." 



D 



DO RIGHT. 

O what conscience says is right ; 
Do what reason says is best ; 
Do with all your mind and might ; 
Do your duty and be blest. 



24 



THE BOY WITH THE LITTLE TIN HORN. 

WHAT care we for skies that are snowing 
On fields that no roses adorn ; 
For blizzards so icily blowing, 
When the boy with the little tin horn 
So merrily blows 
As he goes, as he goes — 
With eyes like the violet, cheeks like the rose? 

He's the herald of Christmas — this fellow 

Who rouses the dreamer at morn ; 
The notes are not soothing or mellow 
That come from his little tin horn. 
But he blows just the same 
By the firelight's flame, 
And we love him and so there is no one to blame. 

He summons the soldiers, reclining 

In corners great soldiers would scorn ; 
They rise, with their little guns shining. 
And march to the little tin horn ! 

They are stiffer than starch, 
'Neath the chandelier's arch. 
But they move when their curly-haired captain 
cries " March !" 

For there never was music in battle. 

Where the flags by the bullets are torn. 
As brisk as the holiday rattle 

Of the toy drum and the little tin horn ; 
With a rubbing of eyes 
All the soldiers arise 
When the little tin horn sends a blast to the skies. 

Blow, blow, little tin horn ! No summer 

Of song is as sweet as your notes ! 
And march, little rosy-faced drummer. 
With the soldiers in little tin coats ! 
" Hep-hep! to the right!" 
With your regiments bright. 
And a kiss for the captain who wins in the fight. 

Frank L. Stanton. 



D 



THE WAY TO SUCCEED. 

RIVE the nail aright, boys, 

Hit it on the head ; 
Strike with all your might, boys. 

While the iron's red. 

When you've work to do, boys. 

Do it with a will ; 
They who reach the top, boys, 

First must climb the hill. 

Standing at the foot, boys, 

Gazing at the sky. 
How can you ever get up, boys. 

If you never try? 

Though you stumble oft, boys. 

Never be downcast ; 
Try, and try again, boys — 

You'll succeed at last. 



370 



CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 



A GENTLEMAN. 

I KNEW him for a gentleman 
By signs that never fail ; 
His coat was rough and rather worn, 
His cheeks were thin and pale — 
A lad who had his way to make, 

With little time for pla} ; 
I knew him for a gentleman 
By certain signs to-day. 

He met his mother on the street ; 

Off came his little cap. 
My door was shut ; he waited there 

Until I heard his rap. 
He took the bundle from my hand. 

And when I dropped my pen, 
He sprang to pick it up for me — 

This gentleman of ten. 

He does not push and crowd along; 

His voice is gently pitched ; 
He does not fling his books about 

As if he were bewitched. 
He stands aside to let you pass; 

He always shuts the door ; 
He runs on errands willingly 

To forge and mill and store. 

He thinks of you before himself, 

He serves you if he can ; 
For, in whatever company. 

The manners make the man. 
At ten or forty, 'tis the same; 

The manner tells the tale. 
And I discern the gentleman 

By signs that never fail. 

Margaret E. Sangster. 

DOWN IN THE STRAWBERRY BED. 

JAYS in the orchard are screaming, and hark ! 
Down in the pasture the blithe meadow lark 
Floods all the air with melodious notes; 
Robins and sparrows are straining their throats — 
"Dorothy, Dorothy," out of the hall 
Echoes the sound of the music call ; 
Songbirds are silent a moment, then sweet 
" Dorothy," all of them seem to repeat. 

AVhere is the truant ? No answer is heard. 
Save the clear trills of each jubilant bird ! 
Dawn-damask roses have naught to unfold. 
Fresh with the dew and the morning's bright gold. 
"Dorothy, Dorothy," — still no reply. 
None from the arbor or hedgerow a-nigh, 
None from the orchard, where the grasses are deep — 
" Dorothy," — surely she must be asleep ! 

Rover has seen her ; his eyes never fail ; 
Watch how he sabers the air with his tail ! 
Follow him, follow him ! where has he gone? 
Out toward the garden and over the lawn. 



" Dorothy, Dorothy," plaintive and low. 
Up from the paths where the hollyhocks grow, 
Comes the soft voice with a tremor of dread, 
" Dorofy's down in 'e stwawberry bed !" 

Curls in a tangle and frock all awry, 
Bonnet, a beam from the gold in the sky, 
Eyes with tiie sparkle of mirth brimming o'er, 
Lap filled with ruby fruit red to the core. 
Dorothy, Dorothy ! rogue that thou art ; 
Who, at thee, sweet one, to scold has a heart? 
Aprons and fingers and cheeks stained with red, 
Dorothy, down in the strawberry bed ! 

ONE LITTLE ACT. 

I SAW a man, with tottering steps, 
Come down a graveled walk, one day ; 
The honored frost of many years 
Upon his scattered thin locks lay. 
With trembling hands he strove to raise 

The latch that held the little gate. 
When rosy lips looked up and smiled, — 
A silvery child-voice said, "Please wait." 

A little girl oped wide the gate. 

And held it till he passed quite through, 
Then closed it, raising to his face 

Her modest eyes of winsome blue. 
"May heaven bless you, little one," 

The old man said, with tear wet eyes; 
''Such deeds of kindness to the old 

Will be rewarded in the skits." 

'Twas such a little thing to do — 

A moment's time it took — no more ; 
And then the dancing, graceful feet 

Had vanished through the school-room door. 
And yet I'm sure the angels smiled, 

And penned it down in words of gold; 
'Tis such a blessed thing to see 

The young so thoughtful of the old. 



o 



SIX YEARS OLD. 

SUN ! so far up in the blue sky, 
O, clover ! so white and so s«eet, 
9 O, little brook ! shining like silver, 
And running so fast past my feet, — 

You don't know what strange things have hap- 
pened 

Since sunset and starlight last night ; 
Since the four o'clocks clo-ed their red petals 

To wake up so early and bright. 

Say! what will }'on think when I tell you 
What mv dear mamma whispered to me. 

When she kissed me on each cheek twice over? 
You don't know what a man you may see. 

O, yes ! I am big and I'm heavy ; 

I have grown, since last night, very old. 
And I'm stretched out as tall as a ladder; 

Mamma says I'm too large to hold. 



CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 



371 



Sweet clover, stand still ; do not blow so ; 

I shall whisper 'way down in your ear, 
I was six years old early this morning. 

Would you think so to see me, my dear? 

. Do you notice my pants and two pockets ? 
I'm so old I must dress like a man ; 
I must learn to read books and write letters 
And I'll write one to you when 1 can. 

I My pretty gold butterflies flying. 

Little bird, and my busy brown bee, 
I shall never be too old to love you, 
And I hope you'll always love me. 

HANDS AND LIPS. 

OH, what can little hands do 
To please the King of Heaven ? 
The little hands some work may try, 
To help the poor in misery. 
Such grace to mine be given ! 

Oh, what can little lips do 

To praise the King of Heaven? 

The little lips can praise and pray, 
And gentle words of kindness say. 
Such grace to mine be given ! 



A 



JEWELS OF WINTER. 

MILLION little diamonds 
Twinkled on the trees : 

And all the little maidens said, 
"A jewel if you please ! " 



But while they held their hands outstretched, 

To catch the diamonds gay, 
A million little sunbeams came, 

.■\nd stole them all away. 

THE BLUEBIRD. 

IKN'OVV the song that the bluebird is singing. 
Out in the apple tree where he is swinging. 
Brave little fellow ! the skies may be dreary. 
Nothing cares he while his heart is so cheery. 

Hark ! how the music leaps out from his throat ! 
Hark ! was there ever so merry a note ? 
Listen awhile, and you'll hear what he's saying, 
Up in the apple tree, swinging and swaying: 

" Dear little blossoms, down under the snow. 
You must be weary of winter, I know ; 
Hark ! while I sing you a message of cheer, 
Summer is coming, and spring time is here ! 

" Little white snowdrop, I pray you arise; 
Bright yelloiv crocus, come, open your eyes, 
Sweet little violets hid from the cold. 
Put on your mantles of purple and gold ; 
Daffodils, daffodils! say, do you hear? 
Summer is coming, and spring time is here ! " 



THE MAN IN THE MOON. 

THE man in the moon who sails through the 
sky. 
Is the most courageous skipper; 
But he made a mistake when he tried to take 
A drink of milk from the "dipper." 

He dipped it into the "milky way," 

And slowly, cautiously filled it ; 
But the "Great Bear" growled and the " Little 
Bear" howled, 

And scared him so that he spilled it. 

A ROQUE. 

GR.\NDM.\ was nodding, I rather think; 
Harry was sly and quick as a wink ; 
He climbed in the back of her great arm- 
chair, 
And nestled himself very snugly there; 
Grandma's dark locks were mingled with white, 
And quick this fact came to his sight ; 
A sharp twinge soon she felt at her hair. 
And woke with a start, to find Harry there. 
"Why, what are you doing, my child?'' she 

said. 
He answered, " I'se pulling a basting fread !" 

GRANDPAPA'S SPECTACLES. 

GRANDPAP.VS spectacles cannot be found ; 
He has searched all the rooms, high and 
low, 'round and 'round; 
Now he calls to the young ones, and what does he 

say? 
" Ten cents to the child w^ho will find them to- 
day" 

Then Henry and Nelly and Edward all ran, 
And a most thorough hunt for the glasses began. 
And dear little Nell, in her generous way, 
Said : " I'll look for them, grandpa, without any 
pay." 

All through the big Bible she searches with care 
That lies on the table by grandpapa's chair ; 
They feel in his pockets, they peep in his hat. 
They pull out the sofa, they shake out the mat. 

Then down on all fours, like two good-natured 

bears. 
Go Harry and Ned under tables and chairs, 
Till, quite out of breath, Ned is heard to declare. 
He believes that those glasses are not anywhere. 

But Nelly, who, leaning on grandpapa's knee. 
Was thinking most earnestly where tliey could be. 
Looked suddenly up in the kind, faded eyes, 
And her own shining brown ones grew big with 
surprise. 



372 



CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 



She slapped both her hands— all her dimples came 

out — 
She turned to the boys with a bright, roguish 

shout ; 
"You may leave off your looking, both Harry 

and Ned, 
For there are the glasses on grandpapa's head!" 

THE LITTLE MATCH-GIRL. 

IT was very cold, the snow fell, and it was al- 
most quite dark ; for it was evening — yes, the 
last evening of the year. Amid the cold and 
the darkness, a poor little girl, with bare head 
and naked feet, was roaming through the streets. 
It is true she had a pair of slippers when she left 
home, but they were not of much use. They were 
very large slippers ; so large, indeed, that they had 
hitherto been used by her mother ; besides, the 
little creature lost them as she hurried across the 
street, to avoid two carriages that were driving 
very quickly past. 

One of the slippers was not to be found, and 
the other was pounced upon by a boy w ho ran 
away with it, saying that it would serve for a cradle 
when he should have children of his own. So the 
little girl went along, with her little bare feet that 
were red and blue with cold. She carried a num- 
ber of matches in an old apron, and she 1 eld a 
bundle of them in her hand. Nobody had 1 ought 
anything from her the whole livelong day ; nobody 
had even given her a penny. 

Shivering with cold and hunger, she crept along, 
a perfect picture of misery — poor little thing ! 
The snow-flakes covered her long flaxen hair, 
which hung in pretty curls round her throat ; but 
she heeded them not now. Lights were streaming 
from all the windows, and there was a .savory smell 
of roast goose ; for it was New Year's Eve. And 
this she rf'/d'heed. 

She now sat down, cowering in a corner formed 
by two houses, one of which projected beyond the 
other. She had drawn her little feet under her, 
but she felt colder than ever ; yet she dared not 
return home, for she had not sold a match and 
could not bring home a penny ! She would cer- 
tainly be beaten by her father ; and it was colJ 
enough at home, besides — for they had only the 
roof above them, and the wind came howling 
through it, though the largest holes had been 
stopped with straw and rags. Her little hands 
were nearly frozen with cold. Alas ! a single 
match might do her some good, if slie might only 
draw one out of the bundle, and rub it against the 
wall, and warm her fingers. 

So at last she drew one out. Ah ! how it sheds 
sparks, and how it burns ! It gave out a warm, 
bright flame, like a little candle, as she held her 
hands over it — truly it was a wonderful little light! 
It really seemed to the little girl as if she were sit- 



ting before a large iron stove, with polished brass 
feet, and brass shovel and tongs. The fire burned 
so brightly, and warmed so nicely, that the little 
creature stretched out her feet to warm them like- 
wise, when lo ! the flame expired, the stove van- 
ished, and left nothing but the little half-burned 
match in her hand. 

She rubbed another match against the wall. It 
gave a light, and where it shone upon the wall, the 
latter became as transparent as a veil, and she 
could see into the room. A snowy-white table- 
cloth was spread upon the table, on which stood a 
splendid china dinner service, while a roast goose 
stuffed with apjiles and prunes, sent forth the most 
savory fumes. And what was more delightful still 
to see, the goose jumped down from the dish, and 
waddled along the ground with a knife and fork 
in its breast, up to the poor girl. The match then 
went out, and nothing remained but the thick, 
damp wall. 

She lit yet another match. She now sat under 
the most magnificent Christmas tree, that was 
larger, and more superbly decked, than even the 
one she had seen through the glass door at the 
rich merchant's. A thousand tapers burned on 
its green branches, and gay pictures, such as one 
sees on shields, seemed to be looking down upon 
her. She stretched out her hands, but the match 
then went out. The Christmas lights kept rising 
higher and higher. They now looked like stars 
in the sky. One of them fell down, and left a 
long streak of fire. "Somebody is now dying," 
thought the little girl, — for her old grandmother, 
the only person who had ever loved her, and who 
was now dead, had told her, that when a star 
falls, it is a sign that a soul is going up to heaven. 

She again rubbed a match upon the wall, and it 
was again light all around ; and in the brightness 
stood her old grandmother, clear and shining like 
a spirit, yet looking so mild and loving. " Grand- 
mother," cried the little one, "oh, take me with 
you I I know you will go away when the match 
goes out — you will vanish like the warm stove, and 
the delicious roast goose, and the fine, large Christ- 
mas tree !" And she made haste to rub the whole 
bundle of matches, for she wished to hold her 
grandmother fast. And the matches gave a light 
that was brighter than noonday. Her grand- 
mother had never appeared so beautiful nor so 
large. She took the little girl in her arms, and 
both flew upwards, all radiant and joyfiil, far, far 
above mortal ken, where there was neither cold, 
nor hunger, nor care to be found ; where there 
was no rain, no snow, or stormv wind, but calm, 
sunny days the whole year round. 

But, in the cold dawn, the poor girl might be 
seen leaning against the wall, with red cheeks and 
smiling mouth ; she had been frozen on the last 
night of the old year. The new year's sun shone 



CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 



373 



■upon the little dead girl She sat still holding the 
matches, one bundle of wiiich was burned. Peo- 
ple said : '■ She tried to warm herself." Nobody 



dreamed of the fine things she had seen, nor in 
what splendor she had entered, along with her 
grandmother, upon the joys of the New Year. 
Hans Christian Andersen. 




"L' 



THE BABY'S PRAYER. 



ORD b'ess papa, mamm.n, Daisy," 

The baby ])rayed to-day ; 
"Kitty, Rose, and ole brack Thomas- 
What else s'all I say? 
1 can't fink of nnffin' moah, 

(Stoopid work to pray !) 
Hush ' for what I'd like to know, now, 

You old Mamma Grav? 
Ain't I p'aved, an' p'aved, and p'ayed, 

Time 'n time again ? 
I've fergot the way to end it — 
Why don't you tell me ven ? • 



For wiiose sake, mamma — say ? 
I'm — so — s'eepy — O, I 'member — 
For pity's sake, Amen !" 

Who chides the child ? I kiss and hush. 

Silent I join the group down-stairs 
That rest and linger by the fire 

To laugh at Baby's prayers. 

" And what did Baby say to-night?" 
But low I answer, with grave brow : 

" She pra\ed for Bose, and you and me—' 
I cannot tell them now. 



374 



CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 



How full the mood the child has drawn 
And pressed upon a musing heart ! 

Amid the happy household chat 
I sit like one apart. 

My thoughts, like prayers, move solemnly : 
"O Lord," I say, "the great, the wise, 

The weak, the miserable, are 
All children in Thine eyes. 

" We take the name of Thy dear Son 
Daring, upon a trembling lip ; 
The cup Thou givest us we lift 
And shrink, and taste, and sip, 

" And try to say, ' For Jesus' sake;' 

Dear Lord, the babe is wisest when, 
Fearless and clear, she pleads with Thee 
' For pity's sake, Amen.' 

" O, truer than the sacred phrase 

That time from Christian years has spun. 
Is he who prays, nor questions if 
Pity and Christ are one !" 

Elizabeth Stuart Phelps. 



w 



A CHILD'S WISH. 

HEN the sunlight fell with radiant glory 

O'er the little bed. 
And the wind, with gentle fingers, moved 
The tresses on her head, 
With fainter voice she whispered, while 

'1 he angel-wings drew nigher, 
And loving ones had hushed their sobs, 
"Oh, Father, lift me higher." 

But her dim sight looked yet further 

Than our weeping eyes could see, 
Far beyond the land of sunsets, 

Into immortality ; 
She heeded not the crimson mist 

That crowned the hills with fire, 
But only breathed, in gentle tones, 

" Dear Father, lift me higher." 

Yet while she spoke the color died 

From out the evening sky, 
And twilight, clad in ashen robes. 

Passed slow and silent by ; 
And death had shut the door of life. 

Smitten the golden lyre. 
And answered the sweet childish wish 

But to be "lifted higher." 

Fatlier, we thank Thee ! for the child 

Treads now th' eternal hills, 
Her footsteps falter not beside 

The ever-flowing rills ; 
Lifted above all grief and care, 

From trial borne away, 
She has exchanged the twilight gloom 

For never-ending day. 

Clio Stanley. 



THE CHILDREN. 

POEM FOUND IN THE DESK OF CHARLES DICKENS AFTER 
HIS DEATH. 

WHEN lessons and tasks are all ended. 
And the school for the day is dismissed. 
And the little ones gather around me 
To bid me "good night," and be kissed, 
O the little white arms that encircle 

My neck in a tender embrace ! 
O the smiles that are halos of heaven, 
Shedding sunshine and love on my face ! 

And when they are gone I sit dreaming 

Of my childhood, too lovely to last; 
Of love that my heart will remember 

When it wakes to the pulse of the past, 
Ere the world and its wickedness made me 

A partner of sorrow and sin — 
When the glory of God was about me. 

And the glory of gladness within. 

O my heart grows weak as a woman's. 

And the fountain of feeling will flow. 
When I think of the paths steep and stony. 

Where the feet of the dear ones must go ; 
Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them, 

Of the tempests of fate blowing wild — 
O there's nothing on earth half so holy 

As the innocent heart of a child. 

They are idols of hearts and of household, 
They are angels of God in disguise — 

His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses. 
His glory still beams from their eyes — 

those truants from earth and from heaven, 
They have made me more manly and mild, 

And I know now how Jesus could liken 
The kingdom of God to a child. 

Seek not a life for the dear ones 
All radiant, as others have done; 

But that life may have just as much shadow 
To temper the glare of the sun. 

1 would pray God to guard them from evil, 

But my prayer would bound back to myself, 
Ah ! a seraph may pray for a sinner, 
But a sinner must pray for himself. 

The twig is so easily bended, 

I have banished the rule and the rod ; 
I have taught them the goodness of knowledge. 

They have taught me the goodness of God. 
My heart is a dungeon of darkness. 

Where I shut them for breaking a rule ; 
My frown is sufficient correction. 

My love is the law of the school. 

I shall leave the old house in the autumn, 
To traverse its threshold no more ; 

Ah ! how I shall sigh for the dear ones 
That meet me each morn at the door. 



4 



\ 



CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 



375 



I shall miss the "good nights" and the kisses, 
And the gush of their innocent glee, 

The group on the green, and the flowers 
That are brought every morning to me. 

I shall miss them at morn and at eve, 

Their song in the school and the street ; 
I shall miss the low hum of their voices, 

And the tramp of their delicate feet. 
When the lessons and tasks are all ended, 

And death says the school is dismissed, • 
May the little ones gather around me, 

And bid me " good-night" and be kissed. 
Charles Dickens. 



T 



THE KING AND THE CHILD. 

HE sunlight shone on walls of stone 

And towers sublime and tall; 
King .\lfred sat upon his throne 
Within his council hall. 



And glancing o'er the splendid throng, 
With grave and solemn face, 

To where his noble vassals stood. 
He saw a vacant place. 

"Where is the Earl of Holderness?" 

With anxious look, he said. 
" Alas, O King ! " a courier cried, 

" The noble Earl is dead ! " 

Before the monarch could express 

The sorrow that he felt, 
A soldier with a war-worn face 

Approached the throne and knelt. 

"My sword," he said, "has ever been, 

O King ! at thy command. 
And many a proud and haughty Dane 

Has fallen by my hand. 

" I've fought beside thee in the field, 
And 'neath the greenwood tree; 

It is but fair for thee to give 
Yon vacant place to me." 

" It is not just," a statesman cried, 
" This soldier's ])rayer to hear. 

My wisdom has done more for thee 
Than either sword or spear. 

"The victories of the council hall 
Have made thee more renown 

Thau all the triumphs of the field 
Have given to thy crown. 

" Mv name is known in every land. 

My talents have been thine, 
Bestow this earldom, thf-n, on me, 

For it is justly mine." 



Yet, while before the monarch's throne 

These men contending stood, 
A woman crossed the floor who wore 

The weeds of widowhood. 

And slowly to King Alfred's feet 

A fair-haired boy she led — 
"O King I this is the rightful heir 

Of Holderness," she said. 

" Helpless he comes to claim his own, 

Let no man do him wrong. 
For he is weak and fatherless, 

And tliou art just and strong." 

" What strength of power," the statesman cried, 

" Could such a judgment bring ? 
Can such a feeble child as this 

Do aught for thee, O King ? 

" When thou hast need of brawny arras 

To draw thy deadly bows. 
When thou art wanting crafty men 

To crush thy mortal foes." 

With earnest voice the fair young boy 

Replied : " I cannot fight. 
But I can pray to God, O King ; 

And Heaven can give thee might I " 

The King bent down and kissed the child. 

The courtiers turned away. 
" The heritage is thine," he said, 

" Let none their right gainsay. 

" Our swords may cleave the casques of men. 

Our blood may stain the sod. 
But what are human strength and power 

Without the help of God?" 

Eugene J. Hall. 

PICKING QUARRELS. 

THERE ! I have opened the windows, I have 
drawn the blinds, and hurk ! already there 
is the sound of little voices afar off, like 
"sweet bells jangling." Nearer and nearer come 
they, and now we catch a glimpse of bright faces 
peeping round the corners, and there, by that 
empty enclosure, a general mustering and swarm- 
ing, as of bees about a newly-discovered flower- 
garden. But the voices we novv hear proceed from 
two little fellows who have withdrawn from the 
rest. One carries a large basket, and his eyes are 
directed to my window; he doesn't half like the 
blinds being drawn. The other follows him with 
a tattered book under his arm, rapping the posts, 
one after the other, as he goes along. He is 
clearly on bad terms with himself. And now we 
can see their faces. Both are grave, and one 
rather pale, and trying to look ferocious. And 
hark ! now we are able to distinguish their words. 



376 



CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 



"Well, I ain't skeered o' you," says the fore- 
most and the larger boy. "Nor I ain't skeered 
o' you," retorts the other; " but you needn't say 
you meant to lick me." And so I thought. An- 
other, less acquainted with children, might not be 
able to see the connection ; but I could — it was 
worthy of Aristotle hiuiself or John Locke. "I 
didn't say I meant to lick ye," rejoined the first; 
"I said 1 could lick ye, and so I can." To which 
the other replies, glancing first at my window and 
then all up and down street, " I should like to see 
you try it." AVhereupon the larger boy begins to 
move away, half-backwards, half-sideways, mutter- 
ing just loud enough to be heard, " Ah, you want 
to fight now, jest 'cause you're close by your own 
house " And here the dialogue finished, and the 
babies moved on, shaking their little heads at each 
other and muttering all the way up street. Men 
are but children of a larger growth ! Children 
but empires in miniature. 

"Ah, ah,hourra ! hourra! here's a fellow's birth- 
day ! " cried a boy in my hearing once. A num- 
ber had got together to play ball, but one of them 
having found a birthday, and not only the birth- 
day, but the very boy to whom it belonged, they 
all gathered about him as if they had never wit- 
nessed a conjunction of the sort I'efore. The very 
fellows for a committee of inquiry ! — into the af- 
fairs of a national bank, if you please. 

Never shall I forget another incident which oc- 
curred in my presence between two other boys. 
One was trying to jump over a wheelbarrow. 
Another was going by ; he stopped, and after con- 
sidering a moment, spoke. "I'll tell you what 
you can't do," said he. "Well, what is it?" 
" You can't jump down your own throat." " Well, 
you can't." " Can't I though?" The simplicity 
of "Well, you can't," and the roguishness of 
" Can't I though ! " tickled me prodigiousl)'. They 
reminded me of a sparring I had seen elsewhere — 
I should not like to say where — having a great re- 
spect for the temples of justice and the halls of 
legislation. 

\ saw three children throwing sticks at a cow. 
She grew tired of her share in the game at last, and 
holding down her head and shaking it, demanded 
a new deal. They cut and run. After getting to 
a place of comparative security, they stopped, and 
holding by the top of a board fence began to recon- 
noitre. Meanwhile, another troop of children hove 
in sight, and arming themselves with brickbats, 
began to approach the same cow. Whereupon two 
of'the others called out from the fence, "You, 
Joe! you better mind! that's our cow!" The 
plea was admitted without a demurrer ; and the 
cow was left to be tormented by the legal owners. 
Hadn't these boys the law on their side? 

But children have other characters. At times 
they are creatures to be afraid of. Every case I 
give is a fact within my own observation. There 



are children, and I have had to do with them, whose 
very eyes were terrible ; children, who after years 
of watchful and anxious discipline, were as indom- 
itable as the young of the wild beast, dro|ip<;d in 
the wilderness, crafty and treacherous and cruel. 
And others I have known who, if they live, must 
have dominion over the multitude, being evidently 
of them that from the foundations of the world 
have been always thundering at the gates of power. 

John Neal. 



w 



A BOY'S SONG. 

HERE the pools are bright and deep, 
Where the grey trout lies asleep, 
Up the river and o'er the lea, 
That's the way for Billy and me 



Where the blackbird sings the latest, 
Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest. 
Where the nestlings chirp and flee. 
That's the way for Billy and me. 

Where the mowers mow the cleanest, 
Where the hay lies thick and greenest ; 
There to trace the homeward bee, 
That's the way for Billy and me. 

Where the hazel bank is steepest. 
Where the shadow falls the deepest, 
Where the clustering nuts fall free 
That's the way for Billy and me. 

Why the boys shoidd drive away 
Little sweet maidens from the play, 
Or love to banter and fight so well, 
That's the thing I never could tell. 

But this I know, I love to play, 
Through the meadow, among the hay ; 
Up the water and o'er the lea, 
That's the way for Billy and me. 

J. Hogg. 
THE LITTLE DARLING. 

A LITTLE maid with sweet blue eyes 
Looked upward with a shy surprise 
Because I asked her name , 

Awhile she bent her golden head, 
While o'er her face soft blushes spread 
Like some swift rosy flame ; 
Then looking up she softly said, 
" My name is Mamma's Darling." 

"Tell me your mother's name, my dear," 

And stooping low I paused to hear — 

The little maid seemed musing ; 
"Why, mamma's name's like mine, you know. 

But just because we love her so. 

We call her Mamma Darling." 



CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 



377 



" Tell me your papa's name," I cried ; 
The little maiden's eyes grew wide; 

" My papa? Don't you know? 
Why, ever since the baby died 
Mamma and I have always tried 
To cheer him from his sorrowing ; 
And my mamma and I love best 
To call him Papa Darling." 

" What did you call the baby, 
deal?" 

The answer came quite low 

but clear : 
" The baby — oh, I wonder 

what 
They call him now in heaven ; 
But we had only one name 

here 
And that was Baby Darling." 

Swift years flew by, and once 

again 
That little maid so tender 
Stood by my side, but she 

had grown 
Like lilies, tall and slender; 
This time 'twas I that called 

her name, 
And swift the blushes grew 

like flame 
At rosy mist of morning ; 
I clasped her in my arms and kissed 
My tender-hearted Darling. 

THE BOY'S COJnPLAINT. 

never mind, they're only boys; " 
is thus the people say, 
And they hustle us and jostle us, 
And drive us out the way. 

They never give us half our rights : 

I know that this is so; 
Ain't I a boy? and can't I see 

The way that these things go? 

The little girls are petted all, 

Called "honey," "dear," and "sweet,' 
But boys are cuffed at home and school, 

And knocked about the street. 

My sister has her rags and dolls 

Strewn all about the floor. 
While old dog Growler dares not put 

His nose inside the door. 

And if I go upon the porch 

In hopes to have a play, 
Some one calls out, " Hello, young chap, 

Take that noisy dog away ! ' ' 

My hoop is used to build a fire, 
My ball is thrown aside ; 



And mother let the baby have 
My top, because it cried. 

If company should come at night, 
The boys can't sit up late ; 

And if they come to dinner, then 
The boys, of course, must wait. 




^ — '^ AnH 



If anything is raw or burned 

It falls to us, no doubt ; 
And if the cake or pudding's short, 

We have to go without. 

If there are fireworks we can't get 

A place to see at all ; 
And when the soldiers come along 

We're crowded to the wall. 

Whoever wants an errand done. 

We always have to scud ; 
Whoever wants the sidewalk, we 

Are crowded in the mud. 

'Tis hurry-scurry, here and there, 

Without a moment's rest, 
And we scarcely get a "Thank you," if 

We do our very best. 

But never mind, boys — we will be 
The grown men by and by ; 

Then I suppose 'twill be our turn 
To snub the smaller boy. 



P 



LOST TOMMY. 

RAY, have you seen our Tommy? 

He's the cutest little fellow, 

With cheeks as round as apples, 

And hair the softest yellow. 



378 



CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 



You see, 'twas quite a while ago — 

An hour or two, perhaps — 
When grandma sent him off to buy 

A pound of ginger-snaps. 

We have traced him to the baker's, 

And part way back again ; 
We found a little paper sack 

Lying empty in the lane. 
But Tommy and the ginger-snaps 

Are missing totally ; 
I hope they both will reappear 

In time enough for tea. 

We have climbed up to the garret. 

And scoured the cellar through ; 
We have ransacked every closet. 

And the barn and orchard too ; 
We have hunted through the kitchen, 

And the pantry? Oh ! of course — 
We have screamed and shouted " Tommy " 

Until we're fairly hoarse. 

Poor mamma goes distracted, 

And pretty Auntie May 
Is sure the darling cherub 

Has somehow lost his way. 
Well, well, I'll give another look 

Into the nursery ; 
I hardly think the little rogue 

Can hide away from me. 

Ah! here's the laundry basket. 

Within I'll take a peep. 
Why — what is this curled up so tight ? 

'Tis Tommy, fast asleep. 
O mamma, auntie, grandma ! 

Come and see the fun. 
Tommy, where's the ginger-snaps? 

" Eaten ! — every one ! " 

" Bless my heart ! " laughs auntie ; 

" Dear, dear, I shall collapse ; 
Where could he stow them all away? 

A pound of ginger-snaps ! " 
But mamma falls to kissing. 

Forgetting fright and toil. 
While grandma bustles out to fetch 

A dose of castor oil. 

Julia M. Dana. 

THE LITTLE BOY WHO RAN AWAY. 

t i T 'M going now to run away." 

I Said little Sammy Green one day, 
■*■ " Then I can do just what I choose, 

I'll never have to black my shoes. 

Or wash my face or comb my hair. 

I'll find a place, I know, somewhere 

And never have again to fill 

That old chip basket — so I will. 



" Good-bye, mamma ! " he said, " Good-by ! " 

He thought his mother then would cry. 

She only said, "You going, dear?" 

And didn't shed a single tear. 

" There now," said Sammy Green, "I know 

She does not care if I do go. 

But Bridget does. She'll have to fill 

That old chip basket, so she will. 

But Bridget only said : " Well, boy. 
You're off for sure. I wish you joy." 
And Sammy's little sister Kate, 
Who swung upon the garden gate, 
Said anxiously as he passed through : 
" To-night whatever will you do. 
When you can't get no 'lasses sjiread 
At supper time on top of bread?" 

One block from home, and Sammy Green's 
Weak little heart was full of fear. 
He thought about Red Riding Hood, 
The wolf that met her in the wood, 
The beanstalk boy who kept so mum 
When he heard the giant's " Fee, fo, fum," 
Of the dark night and the policeman. 
Then poor Sammy homeward ran. 

Quick through the alley way he sped, 

And crawled in through the old woodshed. 

The big chip basket he did fill. 

He blacked his shoes up with a will. 

He washed his face and combed his hair ; 

He went up to his mother's chair 

And kissed her twice, and then he said : 

"I'd like some 'lasses top of bread." 

Mrs. S. T. Perry. 

THE FLAG ON THE SCHOOLHOUSE. 



u 



P with the starry banner ! 

Let it float over roof and tower ! 
Let it greet each pupil and teacher 

When Cometh the morning hour ! 



Let the first thought in the morning 
Be aye of the star-bright flag. 

Of the heroes who fought in its honor, 
Of the courage that could not lag. 

And all through the daily lessons, 

Wherever our duties call. 
Remember the star-bright banner 

Is floating over us all. 

If history is the lesson. 

Never forget tht- flag 
That waved through a hundred battles. 

From the sea to the mountain crag — 

The fl;ig of a hundred battles. 
Stars brighter for each and all, 

With a glory ever growing. 
As its folds now rise, now fall. 



CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 



379 



What if a pine-tree banner 

Floated at Bunker Hill? 
Its glory was transmitted 

To the flag that's floating still. 

So, from Lexington and Concord, 

From Boston's wave-washed shore, 
From each spot where free- 
dom struggled, 
There cometh a glory 
more. 

So, each state shall see em- 
blazoned 

Upon our standard fair. 
The sum of all local glory 

In a national glory there. 

Yorktown and Saratoga 
Are in each stripe and 
star; 
Trenton and Princeton flash 
and glow 
Like beacon-lights afar. 
And all of the naval glory. 
Won by sea-faring sires, 
Glows with an ageless lustre, 
Whose splendor never 
tires. 

" Old Ironsides ' ' I see there, 
Whose captain could do 
and dare, 
As he showed the British 
sailors, 
When he silenced the 
Guerriere. 

And a splendid motto glis- 
tens, 
A motto for every lip, 
Columbia's naval watchword 
Of " Don't give up the 
ship!" 

And another close beside it, 

Shall be known for ages 

hence. 

It is: "Not one cent for 

tribute, 

But millions for defence." 

Forth from the smoke of battle. 

Brighter than noonday sun. 
Flashes the nation's motto: 

" Out of many — one." 

So, all through the daily lessons, 

Wherever our duties call, 
Remember the star-bright banner 

Is floating over us all. 

Frederic Allison Tupper. 



A GIRL. 

O SWEET, shy girl, with roses in her heart, 
And love-light in her face, like those 
upgrown ; 
Full of still dreams and thoughts that, dream-like, 
start 
From fits of solitude when not alone ! 




Gay dancer over thresholds of bright days, 

Tears quick to her eyes, as laughter to her lips ! 

A game of hide-and-seek with time she plays. 
Time hiding his eyes from hers in bright eclipse. 

O gentle-souled ! how dear and good she is. 
Blest by soft dews of happiness and love, 

Cradled in tenderest arms! Her mother's kiss 
Seals all her good-night prayers. Her father's 
smile 



380 



CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 



Brighten her mornings. Through the earth shall 
move 
Her child-sweet soul, not far from heaven the 
while ! 

John James Piatt. 

CUDDLE DOON. 

THE bairnies cuddle doon at nicht, 
\\ i' muckle fash an' din ; 
''Oh, try and sleep, ye waukrife rogues; 

Your father's comin' in." 
They never heed a word I speak, 

I try to gie a froon ; 
But a)e I hap thim up an' cry, 

" Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon ! " 
Wee Jamie, wi' the curly heid — 

He aye sleeps next the wa' — 
Bangs up an' cries, "I want a pitce" — 

The rascal starts them a'. 
I run an' fetch thim pieces, drinks — 

They stop awee the soun' — 
Then draw the blankets up, an' cry, 

" Noo, weanies, cuddle doon! " 

But ere five minutes gang, wee Rab 

Grits oot, frae 'neath the claes, 
" Mither, make Tarn gie ower at once, 

He's kittlin' wi' his taes." 
The mischief's in that Tam for tricks; 

He'd bother half the toon, 
But aye I hap them up an' cry, 

"Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon ! " 

At length they hear their father's fit; 

An' as he steeks the door, 
They turn their faces to the wa', 

While 'I am ])retends to snore. 
" Hae a' the weans been gude? " he asks, 

As he puts off his shoe n ; 
" The bairnies, John, are in their beds. 

An' lang since cuddled doon." 

An' just afore we bed oorsel's — 

^^ e look at cor wee lan.bs ; 
Tam has his arm roun' wee Rail's neck, 

And Rab h;s arm roun' Tam's. 
I lilt wee Jamie up the bed, 

An' as I straik each croon, 
I whisiier till my heart fills up 

"Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon." 

The bairnies ruddle doon at nicht, 

Wi' mirih that's dear to me ; 
But soon the big warl's cark an' care 

Will quaten doon their glee. 
Yet con^'- \' hat will to ilka ane, 

Ma\ He who sits aboon, 
Ave wh'sprr, though their pows be baiild, 

"Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon." 

Alexander Anderson. 



THE DEAD DOLL. 

YOU needn't be trying to comfoit me — I tell 
you my dolly is dead ! 
There's no use in saying she isn't with a 
crack like that in her head ; 
It's just like you said it wouldn't hurt much to 

have my tooth out that day, 
And then, when the man 'most pulled my head 
off, you hadn't a word to say. 

And I guess you must think I'm a baby, wlien you 

;-ay you can mend it with glue. 
As if I didn't know better than that! Why, just 

suppose it was you ; 
You might make her look all mended — but w hat 

do I care for looks? 
Why, glue's for chairs and tables, and toys, and 

the backs of books ! 

My dolly! My own little daughter! Oh, but it's 

the awfulest crack ! 
It just makes me sick to think of the sound when 

her poor head went whack 
Against that horrible brass thing that holds up the 

little shelf. 
Now, nursey, what makes you remind me ? I 

know that I did it myself 

I think you must be crazy — you'll get her another 

head ! 
What good would forty heads do her? I tell you 

my dolly is dead ! 
And to think I hadn't quite finished her elegant 

new spring hat ! 
And I took a sweet ribbon of hers last night to tie 

on that horrid cat ! 

When my mamma gave me that ribbon- — I was 

playing out in the yard — 
She said to me, most expressly, " Here's a ribbon 

for Hildegarde." 
And I went and put it on Tabby, and Hildegarde 

saw me do it; 
But I said to myself, "Oh, nevermind, I don't 

believe she knew it." 

But I know that she knew it now, and I just be- 
lieve, I do, 

That her ])oor little heart was broken, and so her 
head broke too. 

Oh, my baby ! My little baby ! I wish my head 
had been hit ! 

For I've hit it over and over, and it hasn't cracked 
a bit. 

But since the darling is dead, she'll want to be 

buried, of course ; 
We will take my little wagon, nurse, and you shall 

be the horse ; 
And I'll walk behind and cry; and we'll jut her 

in this, you see — 



CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 



381 



This dear little box — and we'll bury her there out 
under the maple tree. 

And papa will make me a tomb.stone, like the one 

he made for my bird ; 
And he'll put what I tell him on it — yes, every 

single word ! 
I shall say, " Here lies Hildegarde, a beautiful 

di)ll who is dead : 
She died of a broken heart, and a dreadful crack 

in her head." 

Margaret Vandergrift. 

A LITTLE BOY'S TROUBLE. 

{THOUGHT when I'd learned my letters 
That all of my troubles were done ; 
But I find myself much mistaken — 
They only have just begun. 
Learning to read was awful, 

But nothing like learning to write; 
I'd be sorry to have you tell it, 
But ray copy-book is a sight I 

The ink gets over my fingers; 

The pen cuts all sorts of shines, 
And won't do at all as I bid it ; 

The letters won't stay on the lines. 
But go up and down and all over, 

As though they were dancing a jig — 
They are there in all shapes and sizes, 

Medium, little, and big. 

The tails of the g's are so contrary. 

The handles get on the wrong side 
Of the d's, and the k's, and the h's, 

Though I've certainly tried and tried 
To make them just right ; it is dreadful, 

I really don't know what to do, 
I'm getting almost distracted — 

My teacher says she is too. 

There'd be some comfort in learning 

If one could get through: instead 
Of that there are books awaiting 

Quite enough to craze my head. 
There's the multiplication table, 

And grammar, and — oh ! dear me, 
There is no good place for stopping 

When one lias begun, I see. 

My teacher says, little by little 

To the mountain tops we climb; 
It isn't all done in a minute, 

But only a step at a time ; 
She says that all the scholars. 

All the wise and learned men. 
Hid each to begin as I do ; 

If that's so, Where's my pen ? 

Carlotta Perry. 



A 



FROM "BABE CHRISTABEL." 

ND thou hast stolen a jewel, death ! 

Shall light thy dark up like a star, 
A beacon kindling from alar 
Our light of love, and fainting faith. 



Through tears it gleams perpetually. 

And glitters through the thickest glooms, 
Till the eternal morning comes 

To light us o'er the jasper sea. 

With our be'-t branch in tenderest leaf. 

We ve strewn the way our Lord doth come ; 
And, ready for the harvest home, 

His reapers bind our ripest sheaf. 

Our beautiful bird of light hath fled : 
Awhile she sat with folded wings — 
Sang round us a few hoverings — 

Then straightway into glory sped. 

And white-winged angels nurture her ; 

With heaven's white radiance robed and 
crowned, 

And all love's purple glory round, 
She summers on the hills of myrrh. 

Through childhood's morning-land, serene 
She walked betwixt us twain, like love; 
While, in a robe of light above, 

Her better angel walked unseen, 

Till life's highway broke bleak and wild; 
Then, lest her starry garments trail 
In mire, heart bleed, and courage fail, 

The angel's arms caught up the child. 

Her wave of life hath backward rolled 
To the great ocean ; on whose shore 
We wandered up and down, to store 

Some treasures of the times of old : 

And aye we seek and hunger on 

For precious pearls and relics rare. 
Strewn on the sands for us to wear 

At heart for love of her that's gone. 

O weep no more ! there yet is balm 
In Gilead ! Love doth ever shed 
Rich healing where it nestles — spread 

O'er desert pillows some green palm ! 

Strange glory streams through life's wild rents, 
And through the open door of death 
We see the heaven that beckoneth 

To the beloved going hence. 

God's ichor fills the hearts that bleed ; 

The best fruit loads the broken bough ; 

.\nd in the wounds our suffering plough. 
Immortal love sows sovereign seed. 

Gerald Massey. 



382 



CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 



AS QUICK AS THE TELEPHONE. 



ONE night a well-known merchant of a town 
in the West, who had been walking for 
some time in the downward path, came 
out of his house and started out for a night of 
carousal with some old _ 

companions he had prom- 
ised to ni(.et 




His young wife had besought him with implor- 
ing eyes to spend the evening with her, and had 
reminded him of the time when evenings passed 
in her company were all too short. His little 
daughter had clung about his knees and coaxed in 
her pretty willful way for papa to tell her some bed- 
time stories ; but habit was stronger than love for wife 
or child, and lie eluded her tender questioning by 
the deceits and excuses which are the convenient 
refuge of the intemperate, and so w ent on his way. 



When he was some distance from his house, he 
found that in changing his coat he had forgotten 
his purse, and he could not go out on a drinking- 
bout without any money, even though his family 

needed it, and his wile 
was economizing every 
day more and more in 
order to make up his 
deficits. So he hur- 
ried back and crept 
^.^ softly past the window 
of his own home, in 
order that he might 
steal in and obtain it 
without running the 
gauntlet of other ques- 
.'S'S' tions or caresses. 

But as he looked 
through the window 
something stayed his 
feet. There was a fire 
in the grate within — 
for the night was chill 
— and it lit up the 
pretty little parlor and 
brought out in start- 
ling effect the pictures 
-^ on the wall. But these 

were nothing to the 
pictures on the hearth. There, 
in the soft glow of the fire- 
light, knelt his child at her 
mother's feet, its small hands 
clasped in prayer, and its fair head 
bowed ; and as its rosy lips whis- 
pered each word with childish 
distinctness, the father listened, 
spellbound, to the words which he 
himself had so often uttered at his 
own mother's knee : 

" Now I lay me down to sleep." 

His thoughts ran back to boyhood hours; 
and as he compressed his bearded lips, he 
could see in memory the face of that mother, 
long ago gone to her rest, who taught his own 
infant lips prayers which he had long forgotten 
to utter. 

The child went on and completed her little 
verse, and then, as prompted by her mother, con- 
tinued : 

"God bless mamma, papa, and my own self" 
— then there was a pause, and she lifted her trou- 
bled blue eyes to her mother's face. 

" God bless papa," prompted the mother, softly. 
" God bless papa," lisped the little one. 
" And please send him home sober." 
He could not hear the mother as she said this; 
but the child followed in a clear, inspired tone — 



CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 



383 



" God bless papa — and please — send him — home 
sober. Amen." 

Mother and child sprang to their feet in alarm 
(vhen the door opened so suddenly; but they were 
not afraid when they saw who it was returned so 
50on. But that night when little Mary was being 
tucked up in bed, after such a romp with papa, 
she said in the sleepiest and most contented of 
ifoices : 

" Mamma, God answers almost as quick as the 
telephone, doesn't he?" 

WHAT SHE SAID. 

SHE told me sum fin' defful ! 
It almost made me cry ! 
I never will believe it, 
It mus' be all a lie ! 
I mean she mus' be 'staken. 

I know she b'oke my heart ; 
I never can forgive her ! 
That horrid Maggie Start. 

Tuesdays she does her bakin's ! 

An' so I fouglit, you see, 
I'd make some fimble cookies 

For Arabella's tea. 
An' so I took my dollies 

An' set 'em in a row, 
Where they could oversee me 

When I mixed up my dough. 

An' when I'd wolled an' mixed it 

Free minutes, or an hour. 
Somehow I dwopped my woUer, 

An' spilt a lot of flour. 
An' I was defful firsty. 

An' fought I'd help myself 
To jes' a little dwop of milk 

Off from the pantry shelf. 

So I weaclied up on tip-toe. 

But, quicker than a flash, 
The horrid pan turned over. 

An' down it came kersplash ! 
O, then you should have seen her 

Rush frough that pantry door ! 
".\n' this is where you be !" she said, 

''O, what a lookin' floor! 

"You, an' your dolls — I'll shake you all — 

I'll shake you black 'n blue!" 
" You shall not touch us. Miss," I cried, 

" We're jes' as good as you I 
An' I will tell my mofer. 

The minute she gets home. 
An' I will ti-11 ole Santa Glaus, 

An' I'll tell every one." 

O, then you should have heard her laugh! 
" Tell Santa Glaus, indeed I 



I'd like to have you find him first ; 

The humbug never lived !" 
" What do you mean, you Maggie Start? 

Is dear old Santa dead?" 
" Old Santa never lived," she cried, 

And that is what she said. 

S. D. W. Gamwell. 

UNSATISFIED. 

THERE was a little chicken that was shut up 
in a shell, 
He thought to himself, " I'm sure I cannot 
tell 
What I am walled in here for— a shocking coop I 

find. 
Unfitted for a chicken with an enterprising mind." 

He went out in the barnyard one lovely morn in 

May, 
Each hen he found spring-cleaning in the only 

proper way ; 
" This yard is much too narrow — a shocking coop 

I find, 
Unfitted for a chicken with an enterprising mind." 

He crept up to the gateway and slipped betwixt a 

crack, 
The world stretched wide before him, and just as 

widely back ; 
" This world is much too narrow — a shocking 

coop I find. 
Unfitted for a chicken with an enterprising mind. 

"I should like to have ideals, I should like to 

tread the stars. 
To get the unattainable, and free my soul from 

bars; 
I should like to leave this dark earth, and some 

other dwelling find 
More fitted for a chicken with an enterprising 

mind. 

"There's a place where ducks and pleasure boats 
go sailing to and fro. 

There's one world on the surface and another 
world below." 

The little waves crept nearer and, on the brink 
inclined. 

They swallowed up the chicken with an enterpris- 
ing mind. A. G. Waters. 



o 



A PLEASANT PUNISHMENT. 

LD master Brown brought his ferule down ; 
His face was angry and red ; 
" Anthony Blair, go sit you there, 
.'Vmong the girls," he said. 
So Anthony Blair, with a mortified air, 

And his head hung down on his breast, 
AVent right away and sat all day 
With the girl who loved him best. 



384 



CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 



TABBY GRAY. 




I 



'M a pretty little kitten, 

My name is Tabby Gray ; 
I live at Frogley Farmhouse, 
Some twenty miles away. 

My little eyes are hazel, 

My skin is soft as silk, 
I'm fed each night and morning 

With a saucerful of milk. 

The milk comes sweet and foaming, 
Fresh from the good old cow. 

And, after I have lapped it, 
I frolic you know how. 

I'm petted by the mistress 
And children of the house. 

And sometimes when I'm nimble 
I catch a little mouse. 



And sometimes when I'm naug 
I climb upon the stand, 

.'^nd eat the cake and chicken, 
Or anything at hand. 



hty 



Oh, then they hide my saucer, 
No matter how I mew ; 

And that's the way I'm punished 
For naughty things I do. 



T 



BABIES AND KITTENS. 

HERE were two kittens, a black and a g 
And grandma said with a frown : 
It never will do to keep them both. 
The black one we had better drown.' 



ray. 



" Don't cry, my dear" to tiny Bess, 
" One kitten is enough to keep. 

Now run to nurse, for 'tis growing late 
And time you were fast asleep." 

The morning dawned, and rosy and sweet, 

Came little Bess from her nap. 
The nurse said, " Go in mamma's room. 

And look in grandma's lap." 

" Come here," said grandma, with a smile. 
From tjie rocking-chair, where she sat, 

" God has sent you two little sisters. 
What do you think of that ? " 

Bess looked at the babies a moment, 

With their wee heads, yellow and brown, 

And then to grandma soberly said : 

"Which one are you going to drown ?" 

L. M. Hadley. 



A STORY OF AN APPLE. 

LITTLE Tommy and Peter and Archy and 
Bob 
Were walking one day, when they found 
An apple ; 'twas mellow and rosy and red. 
And lying alone on the ground. 

Said Tommy: " I'll have it." Said Peter: '"Tis 
mine." 

Said Archy : " I've got it ; so there 1 " 
Said Bobby : " Now let us divide in four parts. 

And each of us boys have a share." ^| 

"No, no !" shouted Tommy, "I'll have it ray- 
self." 

Said Peter: " I want it, I say." 
Said Archy : " I've got it, and I'll have it all ; 

I won't give a morsel away." 

Then Tommy, he snatched it, and Peter, he 
fought, 

('Tis sad and distressing to tell !) 
And Archy held on with his might and his main, 

Till out of his fingers it fell. i 

Away from the quarrelsome urchins it flew, 

And then down a green little hill 
That apple it rolled, and it rolled, and it rolled 

As if it would never be still. 



I 



CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 



385 



A lazy old brindle was nipping tlie grass 

And switching her tail at the flies, 
When all of a sudden the apple rolled down 

And stopped just in front of her eyes. 

Slie gave but a bite and a swallow or two — 

That apple was seen nevermore ! 
" I wish," whimpered Archy and Peter and Tom, 

" We'd kejjt it and cut it in four." 

Sydney Dayre. 



THE UNFINISHED PRAYER. 



"N 



OW I lay" — say it darling : 

" Lay me," lisped the tiny lips 
Of my daughter, Icneeling, bending 
O'er folded finger tips. 



"Down to sleep" — -"to sleep," she murmured 
And the curly head dropped low; 

" I pray the Lord" — I gently added, 
" You can say it all, I know." 

" Pray the Lord " — the words came faintly, 
Fainter still — " my soul to keep ; " 

When the tired head fairly nodded. 
And the child wast fast asleep. 

But the dewy eyes half opened, 

When I clasped her to my breast. 
And the dear voice softly whispered, 

" Mamma, God knows all the rest." 



"I 



WHICH LOVED BEST? 

LOVE you, mother," said little Ben, 
Then forgetting his work, his cap went on. 
And he was off to the garden swing, 
And left her the water and wood to bring. 



" I love you, mother," said rosy Nell — 
" I love you better than tongue can tell; " 
Then she teased and pouted full half the day. 
Till her mother rejoiced when she went to play. 

" I love you, mother," said little Fan, 

" To-day FU help you all I can; 

How glad 1 am school doesn't keep; " 
So she rocked the babe till it fell asleep. 

Then stepping softly she fetched the broom 
And swept tlie floor and tidied the room ; 
Busy and happy all day was she. 
Helpful and happy as child could be. 

" I love you, mother," again they said, 
Three children going to bed ; 
How do you think that mother guessed 
Which of them really loved her best? 



Foy Allison. 



D 



THE DISCONTENTED BUTTERCUP. 

OWN in a field, one day in June, 

The flowers all bloomed together, 
Save one, who tried to hide herself. 
And drooped that pleasant weather, 

A robin who had soared too high, 

And felt a little lazy, 
Was resting near a buttercup, 

Who wished she were a daisy. 

For daisies grow so big and tall ; 

She always had a passion 
For wearing frills about her neck, 

In just the daisy's fashion. 

And buttercups must always be 

The same old, tiresome color, 
While daisies dress in gold and white, 

Although their gold is duller. 

" Dear robin," said this sad young flower, 
" Perhaps you'd not mind trying 
To find a nice white frill for me 
Some day when you are flying." 

" You silly thing !" the robin said ; 
" I think you must be crazy; 
I'd rather be my honest self 
Than any made-up daisy. 

" You're nicer in your own bright gown; 
The little children love you ; 
Be the best buttercup you can. 
And think no flower above you. 

" Though swallows leave me out of sight, 
We'd better keep our places ; 
Perhaps the world would all go wrong 
With one too many daisies. 

" Look bravely up into the sky, 
And be content with knowing 
That God wished for a buttercup 
Just here where you are growing." 

Sarah O. Jewett. 



P 



OFF FOR SLUMBERLAND. 

URPLE waves of evening play 
Upon the western shores of day, 
While babies sail, so safe and free, 
Over the mystic Slumber sea. 

Their little boats are cradles light ; 
The sails are curtains pure and white; 
The rudders are sweet lullabies ; 
The anchors, soft and sleepy sighs. 

They're outward bound for Slumberland 
Where shining dreams lie on the sand, 
Like whisp'ring shells that murmur low 
The pretty fancies babies know. 



25 



386 



CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 



And there among the dream-shells bright 
The little ones will play all night, 
Until the sleepy tide turns — then 
They'll all come sailing home again! 

SUPPOSE. 

SUPPOSE, my little lady. 
Your doll should break her head, 
Could you make it whole by crying 
Till your nose and eyes were red? 







And wouldn't it be wiser 

Than waiting like a dunce, 
To go to work in earnest 

And learn the thing at once ? 

Suppose that some boys have a horse. 

And some a coach and pair. 
Will it tire you less while walking 

To say, "It isn't fair? " 
And wouldn't it be nobler 

To keep you temper sweet, 
And in your heart be thanklul 

You can walk upon your feet ? 

Suppose the world doesn't please you. 

Nor the way some people do, — 
Do you think the whole creation 

Will be altered just for you? 
And isn't it, my boy or girl. 

The wisest, bravest plan, 
Whatever comes or doesn't come 

To do the best you can ? 

Phcebe Carv. 



D' 



INNOCENCE. 

And wouldn't it be pleasanter 

To treat it as a joke, 
And say you're glad twas dolly's. 

And not your own head that's broke? 

Suppose you're dressed for walking 

And the rain comes pouring down, 
Will it clear off any sooner 

Because you scold and frown ? 
And wouldn't it be nicer 

For you to smile than pout. 
And so make sunshine in the house 

When there is none without ? 

Suppose your task, my little man, 

Is very hard to get. 
Will it make it any easier 

For you to sit and fret ? 



THE DEAD KITTEN. 

^ON'T talk to me of parties, Nan. 
I really cannot go ; 
When folks are in affliction they 
don't go out, you know. 
I have a new brown sash, too, it seems a 

pity — eh ? 
That such a dreadful trial should have 
come just yesterday ! 

The play-house blinds are all pulled down 

as dark as it can be ; 
It looks so very solemn, and so proper, 

don't you see ? 
And I have a piece of crape pinned on 

every dolly's bat ; 
Tom says it is ridiculous for only just a 

cat — 



But boys are all so horrid ! They always, every 
one. 

Delight in teasing little girls and kitties, ''just for 
fun." 

The way he used to pull her tail — it makes me 
angry now — 

And scat her up the cherry tree, to make the dar- 
ling " meow!" 

I've had her all the summer. One day away last 

spring, 
I heard a frightful barking, and I saw the little 

thing 
In the corner of the fence; 'twould have made you 

laugh outright 
To see how every hair stood out, and how she tried 

to fight. 



J 



CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 



387 



I shooed the dog away, and she jumped upon my 

arm ; 
The pretty creature knew I wouldn't do her any 

harm. 
I hugged her close and carried her to niannna, and 

she said 
She should be my own wee kitty, if I'd see that ' 

she was fed. 

A cunning little dot she was, with 

silky, soft gray fur ; 
She'd lie for hours on my lap, and 

I could hear her purr ; 
And then she'd frolic after when I 

pulled a string about, 
Or try to catch her tail, or roll a 

marble in and out. 

Such a comfort she has been to me, 

I'm sure no one could tell, 
Unless some other little girl who 

loves her pussy well. 
I've heard about a maltese cross, but 

my dear little kit 
Was always sweet and amiable, and 

never cross a bit ! 

But oh ! last week I missed her. I 

hunted all around. 
My darling little pussy cat was 

nowhere to be found. 
I knelt and whispered softly, when 

nobody could see : 
"Take care of little kitty, please, 

and bring her back to me ! ' ' 

I found her lying, yesterday, behind 

the lower shed ; 
I thought my heart was broken when 

I found that she was dead. 
Tom jiromised me another one, but 

even he can see 
No other kitty ever will be just the 

same to me ! 

1 can" t go to your party, Nannie — 

Macaroons, you say ? 
And ice cream ? — I know I ought 

to try and not give way ; 
And I feel it would be doing wrong to disappoint 

you so ! — 
Well — if I'm equal to it by to-morrow^I may go .' 

Sydney Dayre. 

JOHNNY'S OPINION OF GRANDMOTHERS. 



I'm sure I can't see it at all 

What a poor fellow ever could do 

For apples and pennies and cakes 
Without a grandmother or two. 

Grandmothers speak softly to " ma's" 
To let a boy have a good time ; 




G 



RANDMOTHERS are very nice folks; 
They beat all the aunts in creation ; 
They let a chap do as he likes 

And don't worry about education. 



Sometimes they will whisper, 'tis true, 
T'other way when a boy wants to climb. 

Grandmothers have muffins for tea, 
And pies, a whole row. in the cellar. 

And they're apt (if they know it in time) 
To make chicken pies for a feller. 

And if he is bad now and then, 
And makes a great racketing noise, 

Th?y only look over their specs 

And say: "Ah, these boys will be boys ! 



f- -"'" ' "" 






> ' 




,L^,tL^ . 



388 



AFTERNOON TEA. 



CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 



389 



" Life is only so short at the best ; 

Let the children be happy to-day." 
Then they look for awhile at the sky, 

And the hills that are far, far away. 

Quite often, as twilight comes on 
Grandmothers sing hymns very low 

To themselves, as they rock bv tlie fire, 
About heaven, and when they shall go. 



ONLY A BOY. 

ONLY a boy with his noise and fun, 
The veriest mystery under the sun; 
As brimful of mischief and wit and glee 
As ever a human frame can be. 
And as hard to manage — what ! ah me ! 
'Tis hard to tell, 
Yet we love him well. 




And then a boy, stopping to think, 
Will find a hot tear in his eye, 

To know what must come at the last, 
For grandmothers all have to die. 

I wish they could stay here and jiray, 
For a boy needs their prayers every night 

Some boys more than others, I s'ppose ; 
Such fellers as me need a sight. 

E. L. Beers. 



Only a boy vrith his fearful tread, 
Who can not be driven, must be led ! 
Who troubles the neighbors' dogs and cats, 
And tears more clothes and spoils more hats, 
Loses more kites and tops and bats 

Than would stock a store 

For a week or more. 

Only a boy with his wild, strange ways. 
With his idle hours or his busy days, 



390 



CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 



With his queer remarks and his odd replies, 
Sometimes foolish and sometimes wise, 
Often brilliant for one of his size. 

As a meteor hurled 

From the planet world. 

Only a boy, who may be a man 
If nature goes on with her first great plan — 
If intemperance or some fatal snare, 
Conspires not to rob us of this our heir, 
Our blessing, our trouble, our rest, our care. 

Our torment, our joy! 

" Only a boy ! " 

THE ILL-NATURED BRIER. 

LITTLE Miss Brier came out of the ground ; 
She put out her thorns and scratched every- 
thing 'round : 
" I'll just try," said she, 
" How bad I can be ; 
At pricking and scratching, there's few can match 
me." 

Little Miss Brier was handsome and bright, 
Her leaves were dark green and her flowers were 
pure white ; 
But all who came nigh her 
Were so worried by her 
They'd go out of their way to keep clear of the 
Brier. 

Little Miss Brier was looking one day 

At her neighbor, the Violet, over the way; 

'• I wonder," said she, 

' ' That no one pets me, 
While all seem so glad little Violet to see." 

A sober old Linnet, who sat on a tree, 
Heard the speech of the Brier, and thus answered 
he:— 

" 'Tis not that she's fair, 

For you may compare 
In beauty with even Miss Violet there ; 

" But Violet is always so pleasant and kind, 
So gentle in manner, so humble in mind, 

E'en the worms at her feet 

She would never ill-treat, 
And to Bird, Bee, and Butterfly always is sweet." 



The gardener's wife just then the pathway came 

down. 
And the mischievous Brier caught hold of her 
gown ; 
" Oh, dear! what a tear! 
My gown's spoiled, I declare ! 
That troublesome Brier ! — it has no business there; 
Here, John, pull it up, throw it into the fire ; " 
And that was the end of the ill-natured Brier. 

Anna Bache. 

THE BOY AND THE FROG. 

SEE the frog, the slimy, green frog. 
Dozing away on that old rotten log ; 
Seriously wondering 
What caused the sundering 
Of the tail that he wore when a wee pollywog. 

See the boy, the freckled schoolboy. 
Filed with a wicked love to annoy, 

Watching the frog 

Perched on the log 
With feelings akin to tumultuous joy. 

See the rock, the hard, flinty rock, 
Which the freckled-faced boy at the frog doth 
sock, 

Conscious he's sinning. 

Yet gleefully grinning 
At the likely result of its terrible shock. 

See the grass, the treacherous grass, 
Slip from beneath his feet ! Alas I 

Into the mud 

With a dull thud 
He falls, and rises a slimy mass. 

Now, see the frog, the hilarious frog, 
Dancing a jig on his old rotten log. 
Applying his toes 
To his broad, blunt nose. 
As he laughs at the boy stuck fast in the bog. 

Look at the switch, the hickory switch. 
Waiting to make that schoolboy twitch. 
When his mother knows 
The state of his clothes 
Won't he raise his voice to its highest pitch? 




THE CROWN OF GENIUS: 



OR 



TRIBUTES TO CELEBRATED PERSONS. 




GEORGE WASHINGTON. 

AND of the West ! though passing brief the record of thine age, 
Thou hast a name that darkens all on history's wide page ! 
Let all the blasts of fame ring out — thine shall be loudest far: 
Let others boast their satellites— thou hast the planet star. 

Thou hast a name whose characters of light shall ne'er depart; 
'Tis stamped upon the dullest brain, and warms the coldest heart; 
A war-cry fit for any land where freedom's to be won. 
Land of the West ! it stands alone — it is thy Washington ! 

Rome had its Caesar, great and brave ; but stain was on his wreath : 
He lived the heartless conqueror, and died the tyrant's death. 
France had its Eagle ; but his wings, though lofty they might soar, 
Were spread in false ambition's flight, and dipped in murder's gore. 

Those hero-gods, whose mighty sway would fain have chained the waves — 
Who flashed their blades with tiger zeal, to make a world of slaves — 
Who, though their kindred barred the path, still fiercely waded on — 
Oh, where shall be their "glory" by the side of Washington? 

Hs stood the firm, the calm, the wise, the patriot and sage; 
He showed no deep avenging hate — no burst of despot rage. 
He stood for liberty and truth, and dauntlessly led on, 
Till shouts of victory gave forth the name of Washington. 

He saved his land, but did not lay his soldier trappings down 
To change them for the regal vest, and don a kingly crown ; 
Fame was too earnest in her joy — too proud of such a son — 
To let a robe and title mask a noble Washington. 

Eliza Cook. 

NAPOLEON AND THE 5AIL0R. 



NAPOLEON'S banners at Boulogne 
Armed in our island every freeman, 
His navy chanced to capture one 
Poor British seaman. 

They suffered him — I know not how — 
Unprisoned on the shore to roam ; 

And aye was bent his longing brow 
On England's home. 

His eye, methinks, pursued the flight 
Of birds to Britain half-way over, 

With envy, they could reach the white 
Dear cliffs of Dover. 

A stormy midnight watch, he thought. 
Than this sojourn would have been dearer, 



STORY. 

It but the storm his vessel brought 
To England nearer. 

At last, when care had banished sleep. 

He saw one morning — dreaming — floating, 

An empty hogshead from the deep 
Come shoreward floating ; 

He hid it in a cave, and wrought 
The livelong day laborious ; lurking 

Until he launched a tiny boat 
By mighty working. 

Heaven help us ! 'twas a thing beyond 
Description wretched : sucli a wherry 

Perhaps ne'er ventured on a pond, 
Or crossed a ferry. 

391 



392 



THE CROWN OF GENIUS. 



For ploughing in the salt sea-field, 

It would have made the boldest shudder; 

Untarred, uncompassed, and unkeeled, 
No sail — no rudder. 

From neighboring woods he interlaced 
His sorry skiff with wattled willows ; 

And thus equipped he would have passed 
The foaming billows — 

But Frenchmen caught him on the beach, 

His little Argo sorely jeering; 
Till tidings of him chanced to reach 

Napoleon's hearing. 

With folded arms Napoleon stood. 
Serene alike in ])eace and danger ; 

And in his wonted attitude, 
Addressed the stranger: — 

" Rash man that wouldst yon channel pass 
On twigs and staves so rudely fashioned ; 
Thy heart with some sweet British lass 
Must be impassioned." 

" I have no sweetheart," said the lad ; 
" But — absent long from one another — 
Great was the longing that I had 
To see my mother." 

" And so thou shalt," Napoleon said, 
" Ye've both my favor fairly won; 
A noble mother must have bred 
So brave a son." 

He gave the tar a piece of gold. 

And with a flag of truce commanded 

He should be shipped to England Old, 
And safely landed. 

Our sailor oft could scantly shift 
To find a dinner plain and hearty ; 

But never changed the coin and gift 
Of Bonaparte. 

Thomas Campbell. 

THE PORTRAIT OF SHAKESPEARE. 



T 



HIS figure that thou here seest put. 
It was for gentle Shakespeare cut. 
Wherein the graver had a strife 
With nature, to outdo the life : 
O could he but have drawn his wit, 
As well in brass, as he hath hit 
His face ; the print would then surpass 
All that was ever writ in brass : 
But since he cannot, reader, look, 
Not on his picture, but his book. 

Ben Jonson. 



MARY MORISON. 

OMARY, at thy window be ! 
It is the wished, the trysted hour ! 
Those smiles and glances let me see 
That make the miser's treasure poor; J 
How blithely wad I bide the stoure, 

A weary slave frae sun to sun. 
Could I the rich reward secure — 
The lovely Mary Morison. 

Yestreen when to the trembling string 

The dance gaed through the lighted ha'. 
To thee my fancy took its wing — 

I sat, but neither heard nor saw ; 
Though this was fair, and that was braw 

And yon the toast of a' the town, 
I sighed, and said amang them a', 

" Ye are na Mary Morison." 

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace 

Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee ? 
Or canst thou break that heart of his, 

Whase only faut is loving thee? 
If love for love thou wilt na gie, 

At least be pity to me shown ; 
A thought ungentle canna be 

The thought o' Mary Morison. 

Robert Burns. 

CHARLES DICKENS. 

We would meet and welcome thee. 
Preacher of humanity : 
Welcome fills the throbbing breast 
Of the sympathetic West. 

W. H. Yen ABLE. 

ADAMS AND JEFFERSON. 

NO, fellow-citizens, we dismiss not Adams 
and Jefferson to the chambers of forget- 
fiilness and death. What we admired, 
and prized, and venerated in them can jiever die, 
nor, dying, be forgotten. 1 had almost said that 
they are now beginning to live — to live that life 
of unimpaired influence, of unclouded fame, of 
unmingled happiness, for which their talents and 
services were destined. They were of the select 
few, the least portion of whose life dwells in their 
physical existence ; whose hearts have watched 
while their senses slept ; whose souls have grown 
up into a higher being; whose pleasure is to be use- 
ful; whose wealth is an unblemished rejiutation; 
who respire the breath of honorable fame; who 
have deliberately and consciously put what is 
called life to hazard, that they may live in the 
hearts of those who come after. Such men do 
not, can not die. 

Edward Everett. 



THE CROWN OF GENIUS. 



393 



VANDERBILT IS DEAD. 

THE news conies whispering o'er the wire, 
Vanderbilt is dead. 
The press rolls out the message dire, 
Vanderbilt is dead. 
And the newsboys cry along the street, 
Through the driving storm and wintry sleet, 
Vanderbilt is dead. 

A king dethroned sleeps low in death, 

Vanderbilt is dead. 
The rich men speak with bated breath, 

Vanderbilt is dead. 
And the clanging trains go out to-night 
O'er the icy rails in a ghostly flight, 

Vanderbilt is dead. 

The palace grand is now a tomb, 

Vanderbilt is dead. 
Its splendors grand are veiled with gloom, 

Vanderbilt is dead. 
Where joy was known the mourners weep. 
Where the laugh was heard is sorrow deep, 

Vanderbilt is dead. 

Sleep on, O King, in thy royal bed, 

Vanderbilt is dead. 
The wealth of the world doth crown thy head, 

Vanderbilt is dead. 
Thy sigh is o'er, thy deeds are done, 
And God shall judge them, one by one — 

Vanderbilt is dead. 

Sherman D. Richardson. 

GEORGE WHITEFIELD. 

HE loved the world that hated him ; the tear 
That dropped upon his Bible was sincere; 
Assailed by scandal and the tongue of 
strife. 
His only answer was a blameless life; 
And he that forged and he that threw the dart 
Had each a brother's interest in his heart. 
Paul's love of Christ and steadiness unbribed 
Were copied close in him, and well transcribed. 
He followed Paul ; his zeal a kindred flame. 
His apostolic charity the same. 
Like him crossed cheerfully tempestuous seas. 
Forsaking country, kindred, friends and ease ; 
Like him he labored, and like him, content 
To bear it, suffered shame where'er he went. 
Blush, calumny I and write upon his tomb, 
If honest eulogy can siiare thee room, 
Thy deep repentance of thy thousand lies, 
Which, aimed at him, have pierced the offended 

skies ; 
And say. Blot out my sin, confessed, dejilored. 
Against thine image in thy saint, O Lord ! 

William Cowper. 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 

THE gifted author of " Thanatopsis " has 
adorned the literature of our later times. 
The poem just referred to was written by 
Bryant when a very young man, and we find in 
it the keynote to all his subsequent songs. The 
chief charm of his genius consists in a tender 
pensiveness, a moral melancholy, breathing over 
all his contemplations, dreams and reveries, even 




C. BRYANT. 



such as in the main are glad, and giving asurance 
of a pure spirit, benevolent to all human creatures, 
and habitually pious in the felt omnipresence of 
the Creator. His poetry overflows with natural 
religion — with what Wadsworth calls "The re- 
ligion of the woods." Professor Wilson. 

THE OLD ADiHIRAL. 

ADMIRAL STEWART, U. S. N. 

GONE at last, 
That brave old hero of the past! 
His spirit has a second birth. 
An unknown, grander life; 
All of him that was earth 
Lies mute and cold, 
Like a wrinkled sheath and old 
Thrown off forever from the shimmering blade 
That has good entrance made 

Upon some distant, glorious strife. 

From another generation, 

A simpler age, to ours Old Ironsides came; 
The morn and noontide of the nation 

Alike he knew, nor yet outlived his fame — 
O, not outlived his fame ! 



394 



THE CROWN OF GENIUS. 



The dauntless men whose service guards our shore 

Lengthen still their glory-roll 

With his name to lead the scroll, 
As a flagship at her fore 

Carries the Union, with its azure and the stars, 
Symbol of times that are no more 

And the old heroic wars. 

He was the one 

Whom death had spared alone 

Of all the captains of that lusty age. 
Who sought the foeman where he lay, 
On sea or sheltering bay. 

Nor till the prize was theirs repressed their rage. 
They are gone — all gone : 

They rest with glory and the undying powers ; 

Only their name and fame, and what they saved, 
are ours ! 

It was fifty years ago, 

Upon the Gallic Sea, 

He bore the banner of the free. 
And fought the figlit whereof our children know — 

The death lul, desi)erate fight ! 

Under tiie fair moon's light 
The frigate squared, and yawed to left and right. 

f^very broadside swept to death a score ! 
Roundly played her guns and well, till their fiery 

ensigns fell. 
Neither foe replying more. 
All in silence, when the night-breeze cleared the air. 

Old Ironsides rested there. 
Locked in between the twain, and drenched with 
blood. 

Then homeward, like an eagle with her prey ! 

O, it was a gallant fray — 

That fight in Biscay Bay ! 
Fearless the captain stood, in his youthful hardi- 
hood : 

He was the boldest of them all. 

Our brave old Admiral ! 

And still our heroes bleed. 
Taught by that olden deed. 

Whether of iron or of oak 
The ships we marshal at our country's need, 

Still speak their cannon now as then they spoke; 
Still floats our unstruck banner from the mast 

As in the stormy past. 

Lay him in the ground : 

Let him rest where the ancient river rolls ; 
Let him sleep beneath the shadow and the sound 

Of the bell whose ]iroclamation, as it tolls, 
Is of freedom and the gift our fathers gave. 

Lay him gently down : 

The clamor of the town 
Will not break the slumbers deep, the beautiful 
ripe sleep. 

Of this lion of the wave. 

Will not trouble the old Admiral in his grave. 



Earth to earth his dust is laid. 
Methinks his stately shade 

On the shadow of a great ship leaves the shore; 
Over cloudless western seas 
Seeks the far Hesperides, 

The islands of the blest, 
Where no turbulent billows roar — 

Where is rest. 
His ghost upon the shadowy quarter stands 
Nearing the deathless lands. 

There all his martial mates, renewed and strong, 

Await his coming long. 

I see the happy Heroes rise 

With gratulation in their eyes: 
"Welcome, old comrade," Lawrence cries; 
"Ah, Stewart, tell us of the wars! 
Who win the glory and the scars ? 
How floats the skyey flag — how many stars ? 

Still speak they of Decatur's name. 

Of Bainbridge's and Perry's fame? 

Of me, who earliest came ? 
Make ready, all : 
Room for the Admiral ! 

Come, Stewart, tell us of the wars ! " 

E. C. Stedman. 

ROBERT SOUTH EY. 

HE said (I only give the heads) — he said 
He meant no harm in scribbling; 't was 
his way 
Upon all topics; 't was, besides, his bread. 

Of whicli he buttered both sides; 't would 
delay 
Too long the assembly (he was pleased to dread), 

And take up rather more time than a day, 
To name his works — he would but cite a few — 
" Wat Tyler "— " Rhymes on Blenheim "— 
"Waterloo." 

He had written praises of a regicide ; 

He had written praises of all kings whatever ; 
He had written for republics far and wide. 

And then against them bitterer than ever; 
For pantisocracy he once had cried 

Aloud, a scheme less moral than 't was clever; 
Then grew a hearty anti-jacobin — 
Had turned his coat — and would have turned his 
skin. 

He had sung against all battles, and again 

In their high praise and glory ; he had called 
Reviewing "the ungentle craft," and then 

Become as base a critic as e'er crawled — 
Fed, paid, and pampered by the very men 

By whom his muse and morals had been mauled ; 
He had written much blank verse, and blanker 
prose. 

And more of both than anybody knows. 

Lord Byron. 



THE CROWN OF GENIUS. 



395 



TO THE MEMORY OF BEN JONSON. 

THE muse's fairest light in no dark time, 
Tiie wonder of a learned age the line 
Which none can pass ; the most propor 
tioned wit — 
To nature, the best judge of what was fit ; 
The deepest, plainest, highest, clearest pen; 
The voice most echoed by consenting men ; 
The soul which answered best to all well said 
By others, and which most requital made ; 
Tuned to the highest key of ancient Rome, 
Returning all her music with his own ; 
In whom, with nature, study claimed a part, 
And yet who to himself owed all his art : 
Here lies Ben Johnson ! every age will look 
With sorrow here, with wonder on his book. 

John Cleveland. 

HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

UNHAPPY White ! while life was in its 
spring, 
And th\- young muse just waved her 
joyous wing. 
The spoiler came, and all thy promise fair 
Has sought the grave, to sleep forever there. 
O what a noble heart was there undone, 
When science self-destroyed her favorite son ! 
Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pursuit ; 
She sowed the seeds, but death has reaped the 

fruit. 
'T was thine own genius gave the fatal blow. 
And helped to plant the wound that laid thee 
low. 

So the struck eagle, stretched upon the plain, 
No more through rolling clouds to soar a?ain, 
Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart, 
And winged the shaft that quivers at his heart. 

Keen were his pangs ; but keener far to feel 
He nursed the pinion which impelled the steel, 
While the same plumage that had warmed his nest 
Drank the last life-drop from his bleeding breast ! 

Lord Byron. 

ITALY'S KINO. 

O Victor Emm.\nuel, the King, 

The sword be for thee, and the deed ; 

And nought for the alien, next spring. 

Nought for Hapsburg and Bourbon agreed; 
But, for us, a great Italy freed, 

With a hero to he,ad us — our King. 

Eliz.\beth B. Browning. 

TO THE MEMORY OF HOOD. 

Here lies a poet. Stranger, if to thee 
His claim to memory be obscure. 

If thou wouldst learn how truly great was he, 
Go, ask it of the poor. 



THE POET CAMPBELL. 

BEST known by his remarkable poem, " The 
Pleasures of Hope," Campbell's fame rests 
upon other productions which do not seem 
to lose their charm. He wrote in the taste 
of the time, yet with no small degree of origi- 




THOM.AS CAMPBELL. 

nality, and he handled topics of immediate though 
not ephemeral interest. His battle-pieces on 
names and subjects known to all had the true 
popular ring, a bold tramp of metre. 

Little matters how Campbell managed to pro- 
duce his most inspiring poems. He had the 
touch, that is what is certain. Many of his short 
poems had the unmistakable stamp of the artist 
upon them. Compared as lyrical writers, Camp- 
bell seems to have a finer touch than Scott or 
Byron, the former of whom is apt to be rough, the 
latter turgid. But in whatever rank one or an- 
other reader may place the poetry of Campbell 
all will agree that he made genuine additions to 
English literature. "It is on his lyrics," says 
Professor Aytoun, " that the future reputation of 
Campbell must principally rest. They have taken 
their place, never to be disturbed, in the popular 
heart ; and, until the language in which they are 
written perishes, they are certain to endure." 

William Allingham. 



396 



THE CROWN OF GENIUS. 



K 



THOMAS HOOD. 

S a poet and humorist Hood has touched 
the universal heart. His two productions, 
"Song of the Shirt" and "Bridge of 
Sighs." are sufficient to give him immortal fame, 
even if he had written nothing else. It has been 
well said that the predominant characteristic of 
Hood's genius are humorous fancies grafted u]3on 
melancholy impressions. Yet the terra " grafted "■ 




THOMAS HOOD. 

is hardly strong enough. Hood appears by natural 
bent and permanent habit of mind to have seen 
and sought for ludicrousness under all conditions; 
it was the first thing that struck him. 

On the other hand, his nature being poetic, his 
sympathies acute, and the condition of his life 
morbid, he very frequently wrote in a tone of deep 
melancholy feeling, and was a master both of his 
own art and of the reader's emotion. Sometimes, 
not very often, we are allowed to reach the close 
of a poem of his without having our attention 
jogged and called off by something grotesque, and 
then we feel how exquisite a poetic sense and 
choice a cunning of hand were his. On the whole 
we can pronounce him the finest English poet be- 
tween the generation of Shelley and the generation 
ofTennvson. W. M. Rossetti. 



THE LAST HOURS OF SOCRATES. 

SOCRATES was the reverse of a skeptic. No 
man ever looked upon life with a more posi- 
tive and practical eye. No man ever pur- 
sued his mark with a clearer perception of the road 
which he was traveling. No man ever combined, 
in like manner, the absorbing enthusiasm of a 
missionary, with the acuteness, the originality, the 
inventive resources, and the generalizing compre- 
hension of a i^hilosopher. And )et this man 
was condemned to death — condemned by a hos- 
tile tribunal of more than five hundred citizens of 
Athens, drawn at hazard from all classes of 
society. A majority of six turned the scale, in 
the most momentous trial that, up to that time, 
the world had witnessed. And the vague charges 
on which Socrates was condemned were, that he 
was a vain babbler, a corrupter of youth, and 
a setter-forth of strange gods ! 

It would be tempting to enlarge on the 
closing scene of his life — a scene which Plato has 
invested with such immortal glory : on tb.e affect- 
ing farewell to the Judges ; on the long thirty 
days which passed in prison before the execu- 
tion of the verdict ; on his playful equanimity, 
amid the uncontrollable emotions of his com- 
panions ; on the gathering in of that solemn 
evening, when the fading of the sunset hues on 
the tops of the Athenian hills was the signal that 
the last hour was at hand ; on the introduc- 
tion of the fatal hemlock, the immovable coun- 
tenance of Socrates, the firm hand, and then 
the burst of frantic lamentation from all his 
friends, as, with his habitual ea^e and cheerful- 
ness, he drained the cup to its dregs; then ihe 
solemn silence enjoined by himself; the pacing 
to and fro ; the strong religious persuasions 
attested by his last words ; the cold palsy of 
the poison creeping from the extremities to 
the heart ; the gradual torpor ending in death ! 
But I must forbear. 

O for a modern spirit like his ! O for one hour 
of Socrates ! O for one hour of that voice whose 
questioning would make men see what they knew, 
and what they did not know; what they meant, 
and what they only thought they meant ; what they 
believed in truth, and what they only believed in 
name ; wherein they agreed, and wherein they dif- 
fered. That voice is, indeed, silent; but there is 
a voice in each man's heart and conscience which, 
if we will, Socrates has taught us to use rightly. 
That voice still enjoins us to give to ourselves a 
reason for the hope that is in us — both hearing and 
asking questions. It tells us that the fancied re- 
pose which self-inquiry disturbs is more than com- 
pensated by the real repose which it gives ; that a 
wise questioning is the half of knowledge ; and 
that a life without self-e.xamination is no life 
at all. 



THE CROWN OF GENIUS. 



397 



GENERAL GRANT. 

AS one by one witlidraw the lofty actors 
From that great play on history's stage 
eterne, 
That lurid, partial act of war and peace — 
of old and new contending, 
Fjught out through wrath, fears, dark dismays, 

and many a long suspense ! 
All p.ist — and since, in countless graves receding, 

mellowing, 
Victor's and vanquished — Lincoln's and Lee's — 

now thou with them, 
Man of the mighty days — and equal to the days ! 
Tnou from the prairies ! tangled and manv-veined 

and hard has been thy part, 
To ad.niration has it been enacted ! 

And still shall be — resume again, thou hero heart ! 
Strengthen to firmest day O rosy dawn of hope ! 
Thou dirge I started first, to joyful shout reverse 

— and thou, O grave. 
Wait long and long ! Walt AVhitman. 

TO J. Q. WHITTIER ON HIS SEVEN- 
TIETH BIRTHDAY. 

NOW-BOUND for earth, but summer-souled 
for thee, 
riiv natal morning shines: 
Hail, friend and poet. Give thy hand 
to me. 
And let me read its lines ! 



s 



For skilled in fancy's palmistry am I, 
When years have set their crown; 

When life gives light to read its secrets by, 
And deed explains renown. 

So, looking backward from thy seventieth year 
On service grand and free, 
The pictures of the spirit's past are clear. 
And each interprets thee. 

I see thee, first, on hills our Aryan sires 

In time's lost morning knew, 
Kindling as priest the lonely altar-fires 

That from earth's darkness grew. 

Then wise with secrets of Chaldaean lore, 

In high .\kkadian fane ; 
Or pacing slow by Egypt's river shore, 

In Thothmes' glorious reign. 

I hear thee, wroth with all iniquities 

That Judah's kings betrayed, 
Preach from .\in-Jidi's rock thy God's decrees, 

Or Mamre's terebinth shade. 

And, ah ! most piteous vision of the past, 

Drawn by thy being's law, 
I see thee, martyr, in the arena cast, 

Beneath the lion's paw. 



Yet, afterwards, how rang thy sword upon 

The paynim helm and shield! 
How shone with Godfrey, and at Askalon, 

Thy white plume o'er the field. 

Strange contradiction ! where the sand waves ; 
spread 
The boundless desert sea. 
The Bedouin spearmen found their destined 
head. 
Their dark-eyed chief — in thee! 

And thou wert friar in Cluny's saintly cell, 

.\nd Skald by Norway's foam. 
Ere fate of poet fi.xed thy soul to dwell 

In this New England home. 

Here art thou poet — more than warrior, priest ; 

And here thy quiet years 
Yield more to us than sacrifice or feast, 

Or clash of swords or spears. 

The faith that lifts, the courage that sustains, 

These thou wert sent to teach : 
Hot blood of battle, beating in thy veins. 

Is turned to gentle speech. 

Not less, but more, than others hast thou 
striven ; 
Thy victories remain : 
The scars of ancient hate, long since for- 
given. 
Have lost their power to pain. 

Apostle pure of freedom and of right. 

Thou hast thy one reward ; 
Thy prayers were heard and flashed upon thy 
sight 

The coming of the Lord ! 

Now, sheathed in myrtle of thy tender songs, 

Slumbers the blade of truth ; 
But age's wisdom, crowning thee, prolongs 

The eager hope of youth. 

Another line upon thy hand I trace 

.•Ml destinies above : 
Men know thee most as one that loves his race, 

.A.nd bless thee with their love I 

Bayarh Taylor. 

ON THE DEATH OF PRESIDENT 
TAYLOR. 

WEEP not for him ! The Thracians wisely 
gave 
Tears to the birth-couch, triumph to 
the grave. 
Weep not for him ! Go, mark his higli career; 
It knew no shame, no folly, and no fear. 
Nurtured to peril, lo ! the peril came. 
To lead him on. from field to field, to fame. 
Wee]5 not for him whose lustrous life has known 
No field of fame he has not made his own ! 



398 



THE CROWN OF GENIUS. 



In many a fainting clime, in many a war, 
Still bright-browed Victory drew the patriot's car. 
Whether he met the dusk and prowling loe 
By oceanic Mississippi's flow; 
Or where the Southern swamps, with steamy 

breath. 
Smite the worn warrior with no warrior's death ! 
Or where, like surges on the rolling main, 
Squadron on squadron sweep the prairie plain — 
Dawn — and the field the haughty foe o'erspread 
Sunset — and Rio Grande's waves ran red ! 
Or where, from rock-ribbed safety, Monterey 
Frowns death, and dares him to the unequal fray; 
Till crashing walls and slippery streets bespeak 
How frail the fortress where the heart is weak ; 
How vainly numbers menace, rocks defy. 
Men sternly knit, and firm to do or die; — 
Or where on thousand thousands crowding rush, 
(Rome knew not such a day) his ranks to crush. 
The long day paused on Biiena Vista's height. 
Above the cloud with flashing volleys bright. 
Till angry freedom, hovering o'er the fray, 
Swooped down, and made a new Thermopylae ; — 
In every scene of peril and of pain. 
His were the toils, his country's was the gain. 
From field to field — and all were nobly won — 
He bore, with eagle flight, her standard on : 
New stars rose there — but never star grew dim 
While in his patriot grasp. Weep not for him. 

He was a spirit simple, grand and pure. 
Great to conceive to do, and to endure; 
Yet the rough warrior was, in heart, a child. 
Rich in love's affluence, merciful and mild. 
His sterner traits, majestic and antique, 
Rivalled the stoic Roman or the Greek ; 
Excelling both, he adds the Christian name, 
And Christian virtues make it more than fame. 

To country, youth, age, love, life — all were 
given 
In death, she lingered between him and heaven ; 
Thus spake the patriot, in his latest sigh — 
"My duty done — I do not fear to die ! " 

Robert T. Conrad. 

WILLIAM PENN. 

PENN, despairing of relief in Europe, bent 
the whole energy of his mind to accom- 
plish the establishment of a free govern- 
ment in the New World. For that "heavenly 
end," he was prepared by the severe discipline of 
life, and the love, without dissimulation, which 
formed the basis of his character. The sentiment 
of cheerful humanity was irrepressibly strong in 
his bosom ; as with John Eliot and Roger Wil- 
liams, benevolence gushed prodigally from his 
ever-flowing heart ; and when, in his late old age, 
his intellect was impaired, and his reason pros- 
trated by apoplexy, his sweetness of disposition 
rose serenely over the clouds of disease. 



Possessing an extraordinary greatness of mind, 
vast conceptions, remarkable for their universality 
and precision, and "surpassing in speculative en- 
dowments; " conversant with men, and books, and 
governments, with various languages, and the forms 
of political combinations, as they existed in Eng- 
land and France, in Holland, and the principalities 
and free cities of Germany, he yet sought the 
source of wisdom in his own soul. Humane by 
nature and by suffering; familiar with the royal 
family; intimate with Sunderland and Sydney; 
acquainted with Russel, Halifax, Shaftesbury, and 
Buckingham ; as a member of the Royal Society, 
the peer of Newton and the great scholars of his 
age — he valued the promptings of a free mind 
more than the awards of the learned, and rever- 
enced the single-minded sincerity of the Notting- 
ham shepherd more than the authority of colleges 
and the wisdom of philosophers. 

George Bancroft. 

CLEOPATRA. 

THE barge she sat in, like a burnished throne, 
Burnt on the water : the poop was beaten, 
gold; 
Purple the sails, and so perfumed that 
The winds were love-sick with them : tlie oars 

were silver ; 
Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke and made 
The water, which they beat, to follow faster. 
As amorous of their strokes. For her own person. 
It beggared all description: she did lie 
In her pavilion (cloth of gold, of tissue), 
O'erpicturing that Venus, where we see 
The fancy out-work nature : on each side her 
Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids, 
With divers-colored fans, whose wind did seem 
To glow the delicate cheeks which tl:ey did cool. 
And what they undid, did. 

Her gentlewomen, like the Nereides, 
So many mermaids, tended her i' the eyes. 
And made their bends adornings : at the helm 
A seeming mermaid steers ; the silken tackle 
Swell with the touches of those flower-soft hands. 
That rarely frame the office. From the barge 
A strange invisible perfume hits the .sense 
Of the adjacent wharfs. The city cast 
Her people out upon her ; and Antony, 
Enthroned in the market-place, did sit alone, 
Whistling to the air; which, but for vacancy. 
Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too. 
And made a gap in nature. 

Upon her landing, Antony sent to her. 
Invited her to supper : she replied, 
It should be better he became her guest ; 
Which she entreated : our courteous Antony, 
Whom ne'er the word of "No," woman heard 
speak, 



THE CROWN OF GENIUS. 



399 



Being barbered ten times o'er, goes to the feast; 
And, for his ordinary, pays his heart, 
For what his eyes eat only. 

William Shakespeare. 

PRESCOTTS iWETHOD OF LIVING. 

TH.\T Mr. Prescott, under his disheartening 
infirmities — I refer not only to his imper- 
fect sight, but to the rheumatism from 
which he was seldom wholly free — should, at 
the age of five and twenty or thirty, with no 
help but this simple apparatus, have aspired to 
the character of an historian dealing with 
events that happened in times and countries 
far distant from his own, and that art recorded 
chiefly in foreign languages and by authors whose 
conflicting testimony was often to be reconciled 
by laborious comparison, is a remarkable fact 
in literary history. It is a problem the solu- 
tion of which was, I believe, never before 
undertaken ; certainly never before accom- 
plished. Nor do I conceive that he himself 
could have accomplished it, unless to his uncom- 
mon intellectual gifts had been added great ani- 
mal spirits, a strong, persistent will, and a moral 
courage which was to be daunted by no obsta- 
cle that he m'ght deem it possible to remove 
by almost any amount of effort. 

That he was not insensible to the difficulties 
of his undertaking, we have partly seen, as we 
have witnessed how his hopes fluctuated while 
he was struggling through the arrangements for 
beginning to write his "Ferdinand and Isa- 
bella," and, in fact, during the whole period 
of its composition. But he showed the same 
character, the same fertility of resource, every dav 
of his life, and provided, both by forecast and self- 
sacrifice, against the embarrassments of his con- 
dition as they successively presented themselves. 
The first thing to be done, and the thim; 
always to be repeated day by day, was to 
strengthen, as much as possible, what remained 
of his sight, and at any rate, to do nothing 
that should tend to exhaust its impaired powers. 
In 182 1, when he was still not without some 
hope of its recovery, he made this memoran- 
dum : "I will make it my principal purpose 
to restore my eye to its primitive vigor, and 
will do nothing habitually that can seriously 
injure it." To this end he regulated his life 
with an exactness that I have never known 
equalled. Especially in whatever related to the 
daily distribution of his time, whether in regard 
to his intellectual labors, to his social enjoyments, 
or to the care of his physical powers, including his 
diet, he was severely exact — managing himself, 
indeed, in this last respect, under the general 
directions of his wise medical adviser, but carry- 
ing out these liirections with an ingenuity and 
fidelity all his own. G. H. Ticknor. 



TO COLE, THE PAINTER, DEPARTING 
FOR EUROPE. 

THINE eyes shall see the light of distant 
skies : 
Yet, Cole ! thy heart shall bear to Europe's 

strand 
A living image of thy native land. 
Such as on thine own glorious canvas lies ; 
Lone lakes — savannas where the bison roves — 




W. II. PREbCOTT. 

Rocks rich with summer garlands — solemn 

streams, 
Skies, where the desert eagle wheels and 
screams — 
Spring bloom and autumn blaze of boundless groves. 
Fair scenes shall greet thee where thou goest — fair, 
But different — everywhere the trace of men, 
Paths, homes, graves, ruins, from the lowest glen 
To where life shrinks from the fierce .\lpine air, 
Gaze on them, till the tears shall dim thy sight, 
But keep that earlier, wilder imas;e bright. 

W. C.'Brvant. 



400 



THE CROWN OF GENIUS. 




THE SEMINOLE'S DEFIANCE. 

BLAZE, with you serried columns ! I will not bend the knee ; 
The shackle ne'er again shall bind the arm which now is free! 
I've mailed it with the thunder, when the tempest muttered low. 
And where it falls, ye well may dread the lightning of its blow. 
I've scared you in the city ; I've scalped you on the plain ; 
Go, count your chosen where they fell beneath my leaden rain ! 
I scorn your proffered treaty ; the pale-face I defy ; 
Revenge is stamped upon my spear, and ' ' blood ' ' my battle-cry ! 

Some strike for hope of booty ; some to defend their all ; — 

I battle for the joy I have to see the white man fall. 

I love, among the wounded, to hear his dying moan, 

And catch, while chanting at his side, the music of his groan. 

Ye've trailed me through the forest; ye've tracked me o'er the stream 

And struggling through the everglade your bristling bayonets gleam, 

But I stand, as should the warrior, with his rifle and his spear ; 

The scalp of vengeance still is red, and warns you — " Come not here I " 

Think ye to find my household ? — I gave it to the fiiC. 

My tawny household do ye seek ? — I am a childless sire. 

But, should ye crave life's nourishment, enough I have, and good; 

I live on hate — 'tis all my bread; yet light is not my food. 

I loath you with my bosom ! I scorn you with mine eye ! 

And I'll taunt you with my latest breath, and fight you till I die ! 

I ne'er will ask for quarter, and I ne'er will be your slave ; 

But I'll swim the sea of slaughter till I sink beneath the wave ! 

G. W. Patton. 



FATE OF CHARLES THE TWELFTH. 

ON what foundation stands the warrior's 
pride. 
How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles 
decide ! 
A frame of adamant, a soul of fire. 
No dangers fright him, and no labors tire ; 
O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain, 
Unconquered lord of pleasure and of pain ; 
No joys to him pacific sceptres yield, 
War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field ; 
Behold surrounding kings their powers combine, 
And one capitulate, and one resign ; 
Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in 

vain, 
"Think nothing gained," he cries, "till naught 

remain ; 
On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly, 
And all be mine beneath the polar sky." 

The march begins in military state, 
.\nd nations on his eye suspended wait ; 
Stern famine guards the solitary coast, 
And winter barricades the realms of frost ; 
He comes — nor want nor cold his course delay ; 
Hide, blushing glory, hide Pultowa's day ! 
The vanquished hero leaves his broken bands, 
And shows his miseries in distant lands; 
Condemned a needy suppliant to wait, 
While ladies interpose, and slaves debate. 



But did not chance at length her error mend ? 
Did no subverted empire mark his end ? 
Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound ? 
Or hostile millions press him to the ground? 
His fall was destined to a barren strand, 
A petty fortress, and a dubious hand ; 
He left the name, at which the world grew pale, 
To point a moral, or adorn a tale ! 

Samuel Johnson. 

WENDELL PHILLIPS. 

ALONG tlie streets one day with that swift 
tread 
He walked a living king — then "He is 
dead," 
The whisper flew from lip to lip, while still 
Sounding within their ears, the echoing thrill 
Of his magician's voice we seemed to hear. 
In notes of melody ring near and clear. 

So near, so clear, men cried, "It cannot be! 

It was but yesterday he spoke to me : 

But yesterday we saw him move along, 

His head above the crowd, swift-paced and strong; 

But yesterday his plan and purpose sped, 

It cannot be to-day that he is dead." 

A moment thus, half-dazed, men met and spoke, 
When first the sudden news upon them 'oroke ; 
A moment more, with sad acceptance turned 
To face the bitter truth that they had spurned. 



THE CROWN OF GENIUS. 



401 



Friends said through tears, " How empty seems 

the town." 
And warning critics laid their weapons down. 

He had his fauhs, they said, but they were faults 
Of head and not of heart — his sharp assaults 
Flung seeming lieedless from his quivering bow, 
And needless striking either friend or foe, 
Were launched with eyes that saw not foe or friend, 
But only shining far, some goal or end. 

That compassed once, should bring God's saving 

grace 
To purge and purify the human race — 
The measure tliat meted out he took. 
And blow for blow received without a look, 
Without a sigh of conscious hurt or hate, 
To stir the tranquil calmness of his state. 

Born on the heights and in the purple bred. 
He chose to walk the lowly ways instead. 
That he might lift the wretched and defend 
The rights of those who languished for a friend. 
So many years he spent in listening 
To these sad cries of wrong and suffering. 

Nora Perry. 

MARTIN LUTHER. 

IN the solemn loneliness, in which Luther found 
himself, he called around him not so much 
the masters of the Greek and Latin wisdom 
through the study of the ancient languages, as he 
did the mass of his own countrymen, by his trans- 
lation of the Bible. It would have been a matter 
of tardy impression and remote efficacy, had he 
done no more than awake from the dusty alcoves of 
the libraries the venerable shades of the classic 
teachers. He roused up a population of living, 
sentient men, his countrymen, his brethren. He 
might have written and preached in Latin to his 
dying day, and the elegant Italian scholars, cham- 
pions of the church, would have answered him in 
Latin better than his own ; and with the mass of 
the people, the whole affair would have been a con- 
test between angry and loquacious priests. "Awake 
all antiquity from the sleep of the libraries !" 

He awoke all Germany and half Europe from 
the scholastic sleep of an ignorance worse than 
death. He took into his hands not the oaten pipe 
of the classic muse; he moved to his great work, 
not 

* * * To the Dorian mood 
Of flutes and soft recorders : — 

He grasped the iron trumpet of his mother tongue 
— the good old Saxon from which our own is de- 
scended, the language of noble thought and high 
resolve — and blew a blast that shook the nations 
from Rome to the Orkneys. Sovereign, citizen, 
and peasant, started at the sound ; and, in a few 
short years, the poor monk, who had begged his 

26 



bread for a pious canticle in the streets of Eisen- 
ach — no longer friendless — no longer solitary — 
was sustained by victorious armies, countenanced 
by princes, and, what is a thousand times more 
precious than the brightest crown in Christendom, 
revered as a sage, a benefactor, and a spiritual 
parent, at the firesides of millions of his humble 
and grateful countrymen. 

Edward Everett. 



H 



ROBERT BURNS. 

IS is that language of the heart 

In which tlie answering heart would speak. 
Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start, 
Or the smile light the cheek ; 



And his that music to whose tone 

The common pulse of man keeps time, 

In cot or castle's mirth or moan. 
In cold or sunny clime. 

Through care and pain and want and woe, 
With wounds that only death could heal, 

Tortures the poor alone can know, 
The proud alone can feel. 

He kept his honesty and truth, 
His independent tongue and pen, 

And moved, in manhood as in youth, 
Pride of his fellow-men. 

Strong sense, deep feeling, passions strong, 
A hate of tyrant and of knave, 

A love of right, a scorn of wrong. 
Of coward and of slave; 

A kind, true heart, a spirit high, 

That could not fear and would not bow. 

Were written in his manly eye 
And on his manly brow. 

Praise to the bard ! his words are driven. 
Like flower-seeds by the far winds sown, 

Where'er beneath the sky of heaven 
The birds of fame have flown. 

Praise to the man ! a nation stood 
Beside his coffin with wet eyes — 

Her brave, her beautiful, her good — 
As when a loved one dies. 

And still, as on his funeral day. 

Men stand his cold earth-couch around, 

With the mute homage that we pay 
To consecrated ground. 

And consecrated ground it is — 

The last, the hallowed home of one 

Who lives upon all memories, 
Though with the buried gone. 

Fitz-Greene Halleck. 



402 



THE CROWN OF GENIUS. 



COPERNICUS. 

HE is dying, but he leaves a glorious truth as 
his dying bequest to the world. He bids 
the friend who has brought it place him- 
self between the window and his bedside, that the 
sun's rays may fall upon the precious volume, and 
he may behold it once more before his eye grows 
dim. He looks upon it, takes it in his hands, 
presses it to his breast, and expires. 

But no, he is not wholly gone. A smile lights up 
his dying countenance ; a beam of returning intelli- 
gence kindles in his eye ; his lips move ; and the 



fresh to the eye of memory ; he yearns after and 
covets what soothes the frailty of human nature. 
That touches him most nearly which is withdrawn 
to a certain distance, which verges on the borders 
of oblivion. The streets of London are his fairy- 
land, teeming with wonder, with life and interest 
to his retrospective glance, as it did to the eager 
eye of childhood; he has contrived to weave its 
tritest traditions into a bright and endless romance. 
As an essayist. Lamb will be remembered with 
the best of his class. He has wisdom and wit of 
the highest order, exquisite humor, a genuine and 




CHARLES LAMB. 



friend who leans over him can hear him faintly mur- 
mur the beautiful sentiments which the Christian 
lyrist of a later age has so finely expressed in verse : 
"Ye golden lamps of heaven, farewell, with all 

your feeble light ; 
Farewell, thou ever-changing moon, pale empress 

of the night ; 
And thou, effulgent orb of day, in brighter flames 

arrayed ; 
My soul, which springs beyond thy sphere, no 

more demands thy aid. 
Ye stars are but the shining dust of my divine 

abode. 
The pavement of those heavenly courts where I 

shall reign with God." 
So died the great Columbus of the heavens. 
Edward Everett. 

CHARLES LAMB. 

LAMB'S style runs pure and clear, though it 
may often take an underground course, or 
be conveyed through old-fashioned con- 
duits. He delights to dwell on that which is 



cordial vein of pleasantry, and the most heart- 
touching pathos. His thoughts are always his 
own. Even when his words seem cast into the 
very mould of others, the perfect originality of 
his thinking is felt and acknowledged. An in- 
stance of this is his delightful essay on "Roast 
Pig " — an essay that is fairly succulent with the 
juices of the oven, and is enough to tickle the 
palate of even a man who is not fond of this 
product of the farm-yard. The sweet stream of 
thought bubbles and sparkles with witty fancies 
such as I do not remember to have elsewhere met 
with, except in Shakespeare. 

William Hazlitt. 

THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. 

WOE unto us, not her ; for she sleeps well : 
The fickle reek of popular breath, the 
tongue 
Of hollow counsel, the false oracle, 
Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung 
Its knell in princely ears, till the o'erstung 
Nations have armed in madness, the strange fate 



THE CROWN OF GENIUS. 



403 



Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath 

filing 
Against their blind omnipotence a weight 
Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or 
late — 

These might have been her destiny ; but no, 
Our hearts deny it : and so young, so fair, 
Good without effort, great without a foe; 
But now a bride and mother, — and now there / 
How many ties did that stern moment tear ! 
From thy sire's to his humblest subject's breast 
Is linked the electric chain of that despair, 
Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and 

opprest 
The land which loved thee so that none could 

love thee best. 

Lord Byron. 

HENRY CLAY'S POPULARITY. 

OF our public men of the sixty years pre- 
ceding the war, Henry Clay was certainly 
the most shining figure. Was there 
ever a public man, not at the head of a state, so 
beloved as he? Who ever heard such cheers, 
so hearty, distinct, and' ringing, as those which 
his name evoked ? Men shed tears at his defeat, 
and women went to bed sick from pure sym- 
pathy with his disappointment. He could not 
travel during the last thirty years of his life, 
but only make progresses. When he left his 
home the public seized him and bore him 
along over the land, the committee of one State 
passing him on to the committee of another, 
and the hurrahs of one town dying away as 
those of the next caught his ear. The country 
seemed to place all its resources at his disp6sal ; 
all commodities sought his acceptance. 

Passing through Newark once, he thoughtlessly 
ordered a carriage of a certain pattern : the same 
evening the carriage was at the door of his hotel 
in New York, the gift of a few Newark friends. 
It was so everywhere and with everything. His 
house became at last a museum of curious gifts. 
There was the counterpane made for him by a lady 
ninety-three years of age, and Washington's camp- 
gobiet given him by a lady of eighty ; there were 
pistols, rifles, and fowling-pieces enough to defend 
a citadel ; and, among a bundle of walking-sticks, 
was one cut for him from a tree that shaded 
Cicero's grave. There were gorgeous prayer- 
books, and Bibles of exceeding magnitude and 
splendor, and silver-ware in great profusion. 

On one occasion there arrived at Ashland the 
substantial present of twenty-three barrels of salt. 
In his old age, when his fine estate, through the 
misfortunes of his sons, was burdened with mort- 
gages to the amount of thirty-thousand dollars, 
and other large debts weighed heavily upon his 



soul, and he feared to be compelled to sell the 
home of fifty years and seek a strange abode, a 
(tw old friends secretly raised the needful sum, 
secretly paid the mortgages and discharged the 
debts, and then caused the aged orator to be 
informed of what had been done, but not of the 
names of the donors. 

"Could my life insure the success of Henry 
Clay, I would freely lay it down this day," ex- 
claimed an old Rhode Island sea-captain on the 
morning of the Presidential election of 1844. 
Who has forgotten the passion of disappointment, 




HENRY CLAY AT LEXINGTON, KY. 

the amazement and despair, at the result of that 
day's fatal work? Fatal we thought it then, little 
dreaming that, while it precipitated evil, it brought 
nearer the day of deliverance. 

James P.'\rton. 

JOHN HOWARD. 

THE prisons of Europe previous to Howard's 
great reformatory work almost surpassed 
description. They were dungeons without 
a ray of light to cheer. If human in- 
genuity had set itself to work to inflict the most 
abject misery upon condemned criminals it could 
not ha\e achieved a greater success. Man was 



404 



THE CROWN OF GENIUS. 



nothing more than a brute. There was no pity for 
his chains, no sympathy for his sorrows. The cold 
walls of his cell were no more unfeeling than the 



Great Britain and Europe were grander than 
triumphal marches. If the victims of the dark 
dunjieons could have been released for a moment 




' R.rfAY'-S P-^iX' 



hearts of his judicial tormentors. One loud groan 
went up to heaven from every prison in Europe. 

John Howard came. He was human, sympa- 
thetic, wise. He heard the moan of the prisoner ; 
if he did not turn it into music he at lea-^t made 
it less dolorous. Howard's journeys through 



they would have strewn jjalm-branches in his way. 
The sun rose upon a night of darkness. Uplifted 
eyes and broken hearts hailed the coming of John 
Howard, the prisoner's friend. Better to have the 
blessings of the poor and oppressed than to live 
in bronze and granite. 



THE CROWN OF GENIUS. 



405 



M 



Never before had been heard such music — the 
clanking of chains stricken off by his half-omnipo- 
tent hand. A new era had dawned in civiliza- 
tion. Not that there was any effort to prevent the 
rigid exercise of justice, but the angel of pity, almost 
a stranger in the earth, bent down over the weak, 
the suffering, the abused, the doomed, and there was 
heaven in her eyes. Henry Davenport. 

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 

.\N is the grief of those whose faith 
Is bounded by the shores of death ; 
From out whose mists of doubt and 
gloom 
No rainbow arches o'er the tomb 
Where love's last tribute of a tear 
Lies with dead flowers upon the bier. 

O thou revered, beloved ! — not yet, 
With sob of bells, with eyes tear-wet, 
With faltering pulses, do we lay 
Thy greatness in the grave away ; 
Not Auburn's consecrated ground 
Can hold the life that wraps thee round. 

Still shall thy gentle presence prove 
Its ministry of hope and love; 
Thy tender tones be heard within 
The story of Evangeline ; 
And by the fireside, midst the rest. 
Thou oft shalt be a welcome guest. 

Again the mystery will be clear; 
The august Tuscan's shades appear ; 
Moved by thy impulse, we shall feel 
New longings for thy high ideal ; 
And under all thy forms of art 
Feel beatings of a human heart. 

As in our dreams we follow thee 
With longing eyes beyond the sea, 
We see thee on some loftier height 
Across whose trembling bridge of light 
Our voices of the night are borne, 
Clasp with white hand the stars of morn. 

O happy poet ! Thine is not 

A portion of the common lot ; 

Thy works shall follow thee ; thy verse 

Shall still thy living thoughts rehearse; 

The ages shall to thee belong — 

An immortality of song. 

Francis F. Browne. 

RANDOLPH OF ROANOKE. 

OH, Mother Earth ! upon thy lap 
Thy weary ones receiving, 
And o'er them, silent as a dream, 
Thy gra'sy mantle weaving — 
Fold softlv in thy long embrace 

That heart so worn and broken. 
And cool its pulse of fire beneath 
Thy shadows old and oaken. 



Shut out from him the bitter word 

And serpent hiss of scorning ; 
Nor let the storms of yesterday 

Disturb his quiet morning. 
Breathe over him forgetfuluess 

Of all save deeds of kindness. 
And, save to smiles of grateful eyes. 

Press down his lids in blindness. 

There, where with living ear and eye 

He heard Potomac's flowing, 
And, through his tall, ancestral trees 

Saw autumn's sunset glowing. 
He sleeps — still looking to the west. 

Beneath the dark wood shadow. 
As if he still would see the sun 

Sink down on wave and meadow. 

Bard, sage, and tribune ! — in himself 

All moods of mind contrasting — 
The tenderest wail of human woe. 

The scorn like lightning blasting; 
The pathos which from rival eyes ' 

Unwilling tears could summon, 
The stinging taunt, the fiery burst 

Of hatred scarcely human ! 

Mirth, sparkling like a diamond-sliower. 

From lips of life-long sadness ; 
Clear picturings of majestic thought 

Upon a ground of madness ; 
And over all, romance and song 

A classic beauty throwing, 
And laurelled Clio at his side 

Her storied pages showing. 

All parties feared him : each in turn 

Beheld its schemes disjointed. 
As right or left his fatal glance 

And spectral finger pointed. 
Sworn foe of cant, lie smote it down 

With trenchant wit, unsparing, 
And, mocking, rent with ruthless hand 

The robe pretence was wearing. 

Too honest or too proud to feign 

A love he never cherished, 
Beyond Virginia's border line 

His patriotism perished. 
While others hailed in distant skies. 

Our eagle's dusky pinion, 
He only saw the mountain bird 

Stoop o'er his Old Dominion ! 

Still through each change of fortune strange. 

Racked nerve, and brain all burning, 
His loving faith in mother-land 

Knew never shade of turning: 
By Britain's lakes, by Neva's wave. 

Whatever sky was o'er him. 
He heard her rivers' rushing sound, 

Her blue peaks rose before him. 

J. G. Whittier. 



406 



THE CROWN OF GENIUS. 




o 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 

NE of the greenest of laurels adorns the brow of this favor- 
ite American poet, who, it has been said, is even more 
extensively read and admired in England than at home. 
Many of his productions are as familiar in the homes of the 
people as the old-time almanac used to be in the homesteads of 
our grandfathers. 

Longfellow studied the principles of verbal melody, and ren- 
dered himself master of the mysterious affinities which exist 
between sound and sense, word and thought, feeling and ex- 
pression. There is an aptitude, gracefulness and vivid beauty 
in many of his stanzas which at once impress the memory and 
win ear and heart. There is in the tone of his poetry little pas- 
sion, but much quiet earnestness. 

His ideas and metaphors are often striking and poetical, but 
there is no affluence of imagery or wonderful glow of emotion 
such as take us captive in Byron or Shelley; the claim of Long- 
fellow consists rather in the wise and tasteful use of his materials than in their richness and their 
originality. He illustrates the gentler themes of song, and pleads for justice, humanity, and particu- 
larly the beautiful, with a poet's deep conviction of their eternal claims upon the distinctive recognition 
of the man. 

THE GREAT SENATORS. 



OUR great triumvirate— Clay, Webster, Cal- 
houn — last appeared together in public 
life in the Senate of 1849-5°; ''^e two 
former figuring conspicuously in the debates which 
preluded and resulted in what was termed the Com- 
promise of that year— Mr. Calhoun dying as they 
had fairly opened, and Messers. Clay and Webster 
not long after their close. These lines are, there- 
fore, in some sort, my humble tribute to their 
genius and their just renown. 

I best knew and loved Henry Clay ; he was by 
nature genial, cordial, courteous, gracious, magnetic, 
winning. When General Glascock, of Georgia, 
took his seat in Congress as a Representative, a 
mutual friend asked, "General, may I introduce 
you to Henry Clay?" " No, sir !" was the stern 
response ; " I am his adversary, and choose not to 
subject myself to his fascination." I think it 
would have been hard to constitute for three or 
four years a legislative body whereof Mr. Clay was 
a member, and not more than four-sevenths were 
his pledged, implacable opponents, whereof he 
would not have been the master-spirit, and the 
author and inspirer of most of its measures, after 
the first or second year. 

Mr. Webster was colder, graver, sterner, in his 
general bearing : though he could unbend and be 
sunny and blithe in his intercourse with those ad- 
mitted to his intimacy. There were few gayer 
or more valued associates on a fishing or sailing 
party. His mental calibre was much the larger ; 
I judge that he had read and studied more ; though 
neither could boast much erudition, not even in- 
tense application. I believe each was about thirty 
years in Congress, where Mr. Clay identified his 
name with the origin or success of at least half a 



dozen important measures to every one thus blended 
with Mr. Webster's. Though Webster's was far 
the more massive intellect, Mr. Clay as a legisla- 
tor evinced far the greater creative, constructive 
power. 

I once sat in the Senate Chamber when Mr. 
Douglas, who had just been transferred from the 
House, rose to move forward a bill in which he 
was interested. " We have no such practice in 
the Senate, sir," said Mr. Webster, in his deep, so- 
lemn voice, fixing his eye on the mover, but with- 
out rising from his seat. Mr. Douglas at once 
varied his motion, seeking to achieve his end in a 
somewhat different way. "That is not the way 
we do business in the Senate, sir," rejoined Mr. 
Webster, still more decisively and sternly. " The 
Little Giant" was a bold, ready man, not easily 
over-awed or disconcerted ; but, if he did not 
quiver under the eye and voice of Webster, then 
my eyesight deceived me — and I was very near 
him. 

Mr. Calhoun was a tall, spare, earnest, evidently 
thoughtful man, with stiff, iron-gray hair, which 
reminded you of Jackson's about the time of his 
accession to the Presidency. He was eminently a 
logician — terse, vigorous, relentless. He courted 
the society of clever, aspiring young men who in- 
clined to fall into his views, and exerted great in- 
fluence over them. As he had abandoned the 
political faith which I distinguish and cherish as 
National while I was yet a school-boy, I never met 
him at all intimately; yet once, while I was con- 
nected with mining on Lake Superior, I called on 
him, as on other leading members of Congress, to 
explain the effect of the absurd policy then in 
vogue of keeping mineral lands out of market, and 



THE CROWN OF GENIUS. 



407 



attempting to collect a per centage of the mine;' J 
as rent accruing to the Government. 

He received me courteously, and I took care to 
make my statement as compact and perspicuous as 
I could, showing him that, even in the lead region, 
where the system had attained its full development, 
the Treasury did not receive enough rent to pay 
the salaries of the officers employed in collecting 
it. 

"Enough," said Mr. Calhoun; " you are clearly 
right. I will vote to give away these lands, rather 
than perpetuate this vicious system." "We only 
ask, Mr. Calhoun," I rejoined, " that Congress fix 
on the lands whatever price it may deem just, and 
sell them at that price to those lawfully in posses- 
sion ; they failing to purchase, then to whomsoever 
will buy them." " That plan will have my hearty 
support," he responded ; and it did. When the 
question came at length to be taken, I believe there 
was no vote in either House against selling the 
mineral lands. Horace Greeley. 

NAPOLEON. 

''I ""IS done — but yesterday a king ! 

I And armed with kings to strive — 

■*■ And now thou art a nameless thing ; 

So abject — yet alive ! 
Is this the man of thousand thrones, 
Who strewed our earth with hostile bones, 

And can he thus survive ? 
Since he, miscalled the Morning Star, 
Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far. 

Ill-minded man ! why scourge thy kind 

Who bowed so low the knee ? 
By gazing on thyself grown blind, 

Thou taught'st the rest to see. 
With might unquestioned — power to sa"e — 
Thine only gift hath been the grave 

To those that worshipped thee; 
Nor till thy fall could mortals guess 
Ambition's less than littleness! 

Thanks for that lesson— it will teach 

To after warriors more 
Than high philosophy can preach, 

And vainly preached before. 
That spell upon the minds of men 
Breaks never to unite again. 

That led them to adore 
Those Pagod things of sabre sway. 
With fronts of brass and feet of clay. 

The triumph and the vanity, 

The rapture of the strife ; 
The earthquake voice of victory, 

To thee the breath of life ; 
The sword, the sceptre, and that sway 
Which man seemed made but to obey, 

Wherewith renown was rife — 



All quelled ! — Dark spirit ! what must be 
The madness of thy memorj' ! 

The desolator desolate ! 

The victor overthrown ! 
The arbiter of others' fate 

A suppliant for his own ! 
Is it some yet imperial hope. 
That with such change can calmly cope ? 

Or dread of death alone? 
To die a prince, or live a slave — 
Thy choice is most ignobly brave ! 

He who of old would rend the oak 

Dreamed not of the rebound ; 
Chained by the trunk he vainly broke — 

Alone — how looked he round ? 
Thou, in the sternness of thy strength. 
An equal deed hast done at length, 

And darker fate hast found : 
He fell, the forest-prowlers' prey ; 
But thou must eat thy heart away ! 

Thine evil deeds are writ in gore. 

Nor written thus in vain ; 
Thy triumphs tell of fame no more, 

Or deepen every stain. 
If thou hadst died as honor dies, 
Some new Napoleon might arise, 

To shame tiie world again ; 
But who would soar the solar height, 
To set in such a starless night ? 

Weighed in the balance, hero dust 

Is vile as vulgar clay ; 
Thy scales, mortality ! are just 

To all that pass away : 
But yet methought the living great 
Some higher spark should animate, 

To dazzle and dismay ; 
Nor deemed contempt could thus make mirth 
Of these, the conquerors of the earth. 

Lord Byron. 

ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 

FROM THE "COMMEMORATION ODE." 

LIFE may be given in many ways, 
And loyalty to truth be sealed 
As bravely in the closet as the field, 
So bountiful is fate ; 
But then to stand beside her, 
When craven churls deride her, 
To front a lie in arms and not to yield, 
This shows, methinks, God's plan 
And measure of a stalwart man, 
Limbed like the old heroic breeds. 
Who stand self-poised on manhood's solid 
earth. 
Not forced to frame excuses for his birth. 
Fed from within with all the strength he needs. 



408 



THE CROWN OF GENIUS. 



Such was he, our martyr-chief, 

Whom late the nation he had led, 

With ashes on her head, 
Wept with the passion of an angry grief: 
Forgive me, if from present things 1 turn 
To speak what in my heart will beat and burn. 
And hang my wreath on his world-honored urn, 

Nature they say, doth dote, 

And cannot make a man 

Save on some worn-out plan. 

Repeating us by rote : 
For him her Old World moulds aside she threw. 
And, choosing sweet clay from the breast 

Of the unexhausted west. 
With stuff untainted shaped a hero new, 
Wise, steadfast in the strength of God, and true. 

How beautiful to see 
Once more a shepherd of mankind indeed. 
Who loved his charge, but never loved to lead ; 
One whose meek flock the people joyed to be, 

Not lured by any cheat of birth. 

But by his clear-grained human worth, 
And brave old wisdom of sincerity ! 

They knew that outward grace is dust ; 

They could not choose but trust 
In that sure-footed mind's unfaltering skill, 

And supple-tempered will 
That bent like perfect steel to spring again and 
thrust. 

His was no lonely mountain-peak of mind, 
Thrusting to thin air o'er our cloudy bars, 
A sea-mark now, now lost in vapors blind; 
Broad prairie rather, genial, level-lined, 
Fruitful and friendly for all human kind, 
Yet also nigh to heaven and loved of loftiest 
stars. 
Nothing of Europe here, 
Or, then, of Europe fronting mornward still, 
Ere any names of Serf and Peer 
Could Nature's equal scheme deface ; 
Here was a type of the true elder race. 
And one of Plutarch's men talked with us face to 
face. 

I praise him not ; it were too late ; 
And some innative weakness there must be 
In him who condescends to victory 
Such as the Present gives, and cannot wait, 
Safe in himself as in a fate. 
So always firmly he : 
He knew to bide his time. 
And can his fame abide, 
Still patient in his simple faith sublime. 
Till the wise years decide. 
Great captains, with their guns and drums, 
Disturb our judgment for the hour. 
But at last silence comes ; 
These all are gone, and, standing like a tower. 



Our children shall behold his fame, 

The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man. 
Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not blame, 
New birth of our new soil, the first American. 

J. R. Lowell. 

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 

IN his style he early developed that maturity 
of dignified composure, free from constraint, 
or affectation, and that lucid expression 
which are among its most characteristic traits. 
With little faculty for the harmonies of verse, 
he had a singular command over the musical 
qualities of prose, enabling him to produce 
periods remarkable for their sonorous richness 
and delicate cadences, that sometimes raised 
them almost to the plane of poetry, yet never 




HAWTHORNE. 

destroy their character as prose by interjecting 
the actual rhythms of verse. Although excep- 
tionally fitted for conveying subtleties of fancy 
and thought, his style is equally adajjted to the 
comprehension of children, being invariably clear 
and strongly marked by common sense. 

Another noticeable peculiarity is that in the 
entire range of his writings quotation is almost 
never resorted to, t' e author's mind apparently 
feeling no need of aid or illustration from other 
writers. The superlative merits of Hawthorne's 
style were but slowly recognized in his own 
country, but his fame has rapidly and steadily 
increased since his death, and he is now gene- 
rally esteemed as one of the greatest imaginative 
minds of the century, holding a place in the 
first rank among masters of modern English 
prose. 

The personal appearance of Hawthorne was 
tall, vigorous and commanding. Powerful physi- 
cally, and in every way a strong specimen of 
manhood, he yet, in his manner and presence, 
showed the gentleness of a woman. His intimates 



THE CROWN OF GENIUS. 



409 



were few, but with them, he was a genial com- 
rade, as he was also a delightful companion in 
his household. The union in him of strength 
and sensitiveness has been well described by 
James Russell Lowell : 

First, he from sympathy still held apart 
By shrinking, over-eagerness of heart — 
New England's poet, soul-reserved and deep, 
November nature with a name of May. 

G. P. Lathrop. 



w 



LORD BYRON. 

ITH nature's self 

He seemed an old acquaintance, free to 
jest 

At will with all iier glorious majesty. 
He laid his hand upon " the Ocean's mane," 
And played familiar with his hoary locks ; 
Stood on the Alps, stood on the Apennines, 
And with the thunder talked as friend to friend ; 
And wove his garland of the lightning's wing. 
In sportive twist — the lightning's fiery wing, 
Which, as the footsteps of the dreadful God, 
Marching upon the storm in vengeance seemed ; 
Then turned, and with the grasshopper, who sung 
His evening song beneath his feet, conversed. 
Suns, moons, and stars, and clouds his sisters were ; 
Rocks, mountains, meteors, seas, and winds, and 

storms 
His brothers, younger brothers, whom he scarce 
As equals deemed. All passions of all men, 
The wild and tame, the gentle and severe; 
All thoughts, all maxims, sacred and profane ; 
All creeds, all seasons, time, eternity; 
All that was hated, and all that was dear; 
All that was hoped, all that was feared, by man, — 
He tossed about, as tempest-withered leaves ; 
Then, smiling, looked upon the wreck he made. 

With terror now he froze the cowering blood, 
And now dissolved the heart in tenderness; 
Yet would not tremble, would not weep himself; 
But back into his soul retired, alone. 
Dark, sullen, ]iroud, gazing contemptuously 
On hearts and passions prostrate at his feet. 
So ocean, from the jilains his waves had late 
To desolation swept, retired in pride, 
Exulting in the glory of his niight, 
And seemed to mock the ruin he had wrought. 

As some fierce comet of tremendous size, 
To which the stars did reverence as it passed, 
So he, through learning and through fancy, took 
His flights sublime, and on the loftiest top 
Of fame's dread mountain sat ; not soiled and 

worn, 
As if he from the earth had labored up, 
But as some bird of heavenly plumage fair 
He looked, which down from higher regions came, 
And perched it there, to see what lay beneath. 



The nations gazed, and wondered much and 
praised. 
Critics before him fell in humble plight ; 
Confounded fell ; and made debasing signs 
To catch his eye; and stretched and swelled them- 
selves 
To bursting nigh, to utter bulky words 
Of admiration vast ; and many too. 
Many that aimed to iuiitate his flight. 
With weaker wing, unearthly fluttering made, 
And gave abundant sport to after days. 

Great man ! the nations gazed and wondered 

much, 
And praised ; and many called his evil good. 
Wits wrote in favor of his wickedness; 
And kings to do him honor took delight. 
Thus full of titles, flattery, honor, fame ; 
Beyond desire, beyond ambition, full — 
He died — he died of what? Of wretchedness; 
Drank every cup of joy, heard every trump 
Of fame ; drank early, deeply drank ; drank 

draughts 
That common millions might have quenched, then 

died 
Of thirst, because there was no more to drink. 
His goddess, nature, wooed, embraced, enjoyed, 
Fell from his arms, abhorred; his passions died, 
Died, all but dreary, solitary pride ; 
And all his sympathies in being died. 

As some ill-guided bark, well built and tall, 
Which angry tides cast out on desert shore, 
And then, retiring, left it there to rot 
And moulder in the winds and rains of heaven ; 
So he, cut from the sympathies of life, 
And cast ashore from pleasure's boisterous surge, 
A wandering, weary, worn, and wretched thing, 
Scorched and desolate and blasted soul, 
A gloomy wilderness of dying thought — 
Repined, and groaned, and withered from the 

earth. 
His groanings filled the land his numbers filled; 
And yet he seemed ashamed to groan. — Poor 

man ! 
Ashamed to ask, and yet he needed help. 

Robert Pollok. 

ALFRED TENNYSON. 

LORD ALFRED TENNYSON has been called 
the Shakespeare of his time. It is some- 
what invidious to compare him with any 
poet who ever lived. He is a mountain summit 
by himself, standing alone, majestic and grand, 
yet anything but cold and forbidding. He is 
superior in intelle'tual grasp, original expression, 
and subtle emotion. 

Mr. Tennvson was an artist before he was a 
poet. I suppose it is in some respects this lavish 
native strength which has given him his delight in 



410 



THE CROWN OF GENIUS. 



great variety and richness of materials, showing a 
tropical luxuriance of natural gifts. What his 
poetical faculty delights in most are rich land- 
scapes, in which either nature or man has accu- 
mulated a lavish variety of effects. It is in the 
scenery of the mill, the garden, the chase, the 
rich pastures, the harvest fields, the palace plea- 




sings the praises of holy and exalted friendship 
more than the warmer passion of love. He may 
be characterized as an elevated philosopher with a 
poet's expression, which a delicate perception of 
the beautiful and true has given him. 

His harp is not strung with strings whose wild, 
loud notes shall first awaken, and then petrify the 
snoring world, but with silken, silvery, gossamer 
chords, whose fairy melody is heard only by 
the delicate spiritual ear. 

Yet keeps he perhaps too close to the shores 
of time, and dares not, or will not, sail the 
mighty oceans of mind, and bring us, like golden 
fruit, from beyond their distant shores sublime 
and inspiring ideas of futurity. He keeps his 
wings too closely furled, when we consider his 
poetical powers. 

R. H. HUTTON. 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 

sure-grounds, fair parks and domains, glowing 
with sylvan beauty, that Mr. Tennyson most 
delights. 

He has a strong fascination for old legends, as 
well as for those common tales of achievement 
and adventure which delight the popular heart. 
There is always the movement of real life in his 
poems, a kind of stately tread and marching for- 
ward, which seizes the reader as the mighty tide 
bys hold of the floating skiff and carries it away 
on its heaving bosom. His pen-pictures, it may 
be said, succeed each other too rapidly, yet for the 
most part his style ripples along with perfect ease 
and grace. 

Not exactly cypress, but a wreath of weeping 
willow, should encircle his name. He is enam- 
ored with ideal beauty and purity of soul, and he 



c 



CAMP=BELL. 

CHARADE. 

OME from my first, ay, come ! 
The battle dawn is nigh ; 
And the screaming trump and the thun- 
dering drum 
Are calling thee to die ' 



Fight as thy father fought ; 

Fall as thy father fell ; 
Thy task is taught; thy shroud is wrought; 

So forward and farewell ! 

Toll ye my second 1 toll ! 

Fling high the flambeau's light. 
And sing the hymn for a parted soul 

Beneath the silent night ! 

The wreath upon his head, 

The cross upon his breast ; 
Let the prayer be said and the tear be shed. 

So — take him to his rest ! 

Call ye my whole — ay, call 

The lord of lute and lay; 
And let him greet the sable pall 

With noble song to-day. 

Go, call him by his name ! 

No fitter hand may crave 
To light the flame of a soldier's fame 

On the turf of a soldier's grave. 

\y. M. Praed. 



THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 

MOURN, lor to us he seems tlie last. 
Remembering all his greatness in the past. 
No more in soldier fashion will he greet 
With lifted hand the gazer in the street. 
O friends, our chief state-oracle is mute; 
Mourn for the man of long-enduring blood. 
The statesman -warrior, moderate, resolute. 
Whole in himself, a common good. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



THE CROWN OF GENIUS. 



411 




CAROLINE AND SIR WILLIA:., 

TWO CELEBRATED ASTRONOMERS. 

HE name of Herschel is as bri£;ht as the stars 



..-iJIIEL. 



I in company with which those who bore the 

■*■ name spent a good part of their lives. Their 

look seemed to be upward, always exploring the 

mysteries of the heavens. Brilliant discoveries 

came within range of their vision, and the great 



volumes in the library of science are more numei- 
ous to-day than as if the Hersciiels had never 
lived. They held companionship with the starry 
heavens, and were on the best of terms with distant 
worlds. 

Caroline was the sister of Sir William Herschel, 
whom she assisted in his astronomical observa- 



412 



THE CROWN OF GENIUS. 



tions and computations. There have been several 
women who have excelled in the science of astro- 
nomv. It is a science which appeals to their love 




of the beautiful and the sublime, while at the same 
time many are giited with mathematical talent 
equal to the study. In 1 798 Caroline published 
a valuable catalogue of over 500 stars. Her 
brother William distinguished himself by many 
important discoveries, which created a profound 



impression upon the scientific thought of his 
time. He was the first to behold the planet 
Uranus floating in the far depths of space. This 
was one of the most important dis- 
coveries of modern times, and gave 
to Herschel a name henceforth to be 
held in honor. 

PRISCILLA. 

MILES STANDISH, the famous' 
captain of Plymouth Colony, 
feeling the desolation of his 
bachelorhood, resolved to take unto 
himself a wife, and also resolved that 
this wife should be the fair Puritan maid 
Priscilla. Standish sent his dutiful sec- 
retary, John Alden, to make known his 
wishes and to do the courting. Stand- 
ish himself felt that he was more skillful 
in the arts of war than in those of court- 
shii). Maidens are known sometimes 
to iiave minds of their own, and Pris- 
cilla, not being lost in admiration of 
Miles Standish, and knowing a good 
chance when she saw it, executed a 
flank movement, and said, " Why don't 
you speak for yourself, John?" 

John was not slow to speak after 
receiving such encouragement, and 
Captain Miles Standish was compelled 
to doff his plumes to the man who had 
been commissioned to do the courting. 
It was not long before there were wed- 
ding festivities, the termination of 
which is beautifully described by Long- 
fellow : 

Onward the bridal jjrocession now 

moved to their new habitation, 
Happy husband and wife, and friends 

conversing together. 
Pleasantly munnured the brook as they 

crossed the ford in the forest, 
Pleased with the image that passed, like 

a dream of love through its bosom, 
Tremulous, floating in air, o'er the 

depths of the azure abysses. 

Down through the golden leaves the sun 

was pouring his splendors, 
Gleaming on purple grapes, that, from 
branches above them suspended, 
Mingled their odorous breath with the 
balm of the pine and the fir-tree. 
Wild and sweet as the clusters that grew in the 

valley of Eschol. 
Like a picture it seemed of the primitive, pastoral 

ages, 
Fresh with the vouth of the world and recalling 
Rebecca and Isaac, 



THE CROWN OF GENIUS. 



413 



Old and yet ever new, and simple and beautiful 

always, 
Love immortal and young in the endless succession 

of lovers. 
So through the Plymouth woods passed onward 

jhe bridal procession. 

ON A BUST OF DANTE. 

SEE, from this counterfeit of him 
Whom Arno shall remember long, 
How stern of lineament, how grim, 
The father was of Tuscan song ! 
There but the burning sense of wrong. 
Perpetual care, and scorn, abide — 

Small friendship for the lordly throng. 
Distrust of all the world beside. 

Faithful if this wan image be. 

No dream his life was, but a fight ; 
Could any Beatrice see 

A lover in that anchorite? 

To that cold Ghibelline's gloomy sight 
Who could have guessed the visions came 

Of beauty, veiled with heavenly light, 
In circles of eternal flame ? 

The lips as Cumae's cavern close. 

The cheeks with fast and sorrow thin, 

The rigid front, almost morose. 
But for the ]iatient hope within, 
Declare a life whose course hath been 

Unsullied still, though still severe, 

Which, through the wavering days of sin, 

Kept itself icy-chaste and clear. 

Not wholly such his haggard look 

When wandering once, forlorn, he strayed. 
With no companion save his book, 

To Corvo's hushed monastic shade ; 

Where, as the Benedictine laid 
His palm upon the pilgrim guest. 

The single boon for which he prayed 
The convent's charity was rest. 

Peace dwells not here — this rugged face 

Betrays no spirit of repose ; 
The sullen warrior sole we trace. 

The marble man of many woes. 

Such was his mien when first arose 
The thought of that strange tale divine — 

When hell he peopled with his foes. 
The scourge of many a guilty line. 

War to the last he waged with all 

The tyrant canker-worms of earth ; 
Baron and duke, in hold and hall, 

Cursed the dark hour that gave him birth; 

He used Rome's harlot for liis mirth ; 
Plucked bare hypocrisy and crime ; 

But \aliant souls of kingly worth 
Transmitted to the rolls of time. 



O Time ! whose verdicts mock our own, 

The only righteous judge art thou ; 
That poor, old exile, sad and lone. 

Is Latium's other Virgil now. 

Before his name the nations bow ; 
His words are parcel of mankind, 

Deep in whose hearts, as on his brow, 
The marks have sunk of Dante's mind. 

Thomas Willi.am Parsons. 

LADY HENRY SOMERSET. 

OF noble birth, yet nobler in heart and soul, 
Lady Somerset is one of the famous 
women of our time, by virtue of her 
broad charity, her arduous labors in the cause of 
reform, especially that of temperance, and that 




LADY SOMERSET. 

spirit of self-sacrifice which has devoted fortune 
and noble birth to the uplifting of the poor and 
degraded. Her name is known in both hemi- 
spheres. In America she has shed the light and 
glow of her great heart and nature from ocean to 
ocean. Of rare personal attractions, cultured 
manners, gracefiil and forcible speech, untiring 
labor and enthusiasm, she illustrates vividly what 
can be accomplished by woman when inspired by 
a great aim and moved by a holy purpose. 

Lady Somerset in no degree loses her dignity 
and refinement by her public life. There is no 
appearance of coming down; of stepping from 



414 



THE CROWN OF GENIUS. 



some lofty pedestal; of abandoning a sacred 
sphere, such as the world has always conceded 
to woman. She lifts up, adorns, purifies, glori- 
fies what she touches, and like the aroma of 
flowers is the influence of her life. 

Henry Davenport. 

THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE. 

EXECUTED 1650. 

THE morning dawned full darkly. 
The rain came flashing down. 
And the jagged streak of the levin-bolt 
Lit up the gloomy town. 
The thunder crashed across the heaven, 

The fatal hour was come ; 
Yet aye broke in, witli muffled beat. 

The 'larum of the drum. 
There was madness on the earth below 

And anger in the sky. 
And young and old, and rich and i)oor. 
Came forth to see him die. 

Ah God ! that ghastly gibbet ! 

How disrral 't is to see 
The great tall spectral skeleton, 

The ladder and the tree ! 
Hark ! hark ! it is the clash of arms — 

The bells begin to toll — 
" He is coming ! he is coming ! 

God's mercy on his soul ! " 
One last long peal of thunder — 

The clouds are cleared away. 
And the glorious sun once more looks down 

Amidst the dazzling day. 

" He is coming ! he is coming ! " 

Like a bridegroom from his room 
Came the hero from his prison 

To the scaffold and the doom. 
There was glory on his forehead, 

There was lustre in his eye. 
And he never walked to battle 

More proudly than to die. 



There was color in his visage, 

Though the cheeks of all were wan ; 

And they marvelled as they saw him pass. 
That great and goodly man ! 

He mounted up the scaffold, 

And he turned him to the crowd ; 
But they dared not trust the people, 

So he might not speak aloud. 
But he looked upon the heavens, 

And they were clear and blue, 
And in the liquid ether 

The eye of God shone through : 
Yet a black and murky battlement 

Lay resting on the hill, 
As though the thunder slejit within — 

All else was calm and still. 

The grim Geneva ministers 

With anxious scowl drew near. 
As you have seen the ravens flock 

Around the dying deer. 
He would not deign them word nor sign, 

But alone he bent the knee ; 
And veiled his face for Christ's dear grace 

Beneath the gallows-tree. 
Then, radiant and serene, he rose, 

And cast his cloak away ; 
For he had ta'en his latest look 

Of earth and sun and day. 

A beam of light fell o'er him. 

Like a glory round the shriven. 
And he climbed the lofty ladder 

As it were the path to heaven. 
Then came a flash from out the cloud. 

And a stunning thunder-roll; 
And no man dared to look aloft. 

For fear was on every soul. 
There was another heavy sound, 

A hush, and then a groan ; 
And darkness swept across the sky — 

The work of death was done ! 

W. E. AVTOUN. 




THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT: 

CONTAINING 

CHOICE PRODUCTIONS FROM MASTER MINDS. 

THE VILLAGE WEAVER. 

" HE weaver is sitting before his loom, 
All day long in a curious room, 

Weaving a carpet of various hues ; 
Here and there is a shade of green. 
With brighter colors woven between, 

And various tints of browns and blues. 

Strangers and neighbors visit the room, 
And children, as well, to see the loom, 

Who ponder awhile and go away. 
Of the visitors that kindly call, 
The little ones please him best of all. 

With rapturous songs of mirth and play. 

Forward and backward the shuttle goes, 
Followed by loud and creaking blows, 

While the faithful weaver works away. 
He turns a selvedge with skillful hands, 
Shaping a pattern of various brands, 

Out of black and a mixture of gray. 

His back is bent and his hair is white. 
For many a year has taken flight 

Since he on the loom began to weave. 
During that time, I may safely say, 
The woof that has crossed the warp each day 

Could encircle the world, I believe. 




I often watch him plying his trade. 
Blending with harmony every shade, 

And forming a carpet quaint and fine. 
On much the same as the weaver planned 
Each life is wrought with a filmy strand. 

And deeds, like colors, form some design 



Time is a weaver whose shuttles hum, 
Until the end of our life has come, 

And the soul parts from its dusty loom. 
Youth is briglit color that fades away. 
Age and years are the dark and gray, 
And the world is the curious room. 

George S. Johnson, 
A JEWEL IN DISGUISE. 



I'VE met with a good many people 
In jogging over life's varied way — 
I've encountered the clever, the simple, 
The crabbed, the grave and the gay. 
I have traveled with beauty, with virtue, 

I've been with the ugly, the bad, 
I've laughed with the ones who were merry, 
And wept with the ones who were sad. 

One thing I have learned in my journey, 
Never to judge one by what he appears — 

The eyes that seem sparkling with laughter 
Oft battle to keep back the tears j 



And long sanctimonious faces 

Hide often the souls that are vile, 

While the heart that is merry and cheerful 
Is often the freest from guile. 

And I've learned not to look for perfection 

In one of our frail human kind; 
In hearts the most gentle and loving 

Some blemish or fault we can find. 
But yet I have not found the creature 

So low, or depraved, or so mean, 
But had some good impulse, some virtue 

That 'mong his bad traits might be seen. 

415 



416 



THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT. 



o 



A DREAM. 

IT was but a dream I had 

While the musicians played — 
J And here the sky and here the glad 
Old ocean kissed the glade; 
And here the laughing ripples ran, 

And here the roses grew 
That threw a kiss to every man 
That voyaged with the crew. 

Our silken sails in lazy folds 

Dropped in the breathless breeze 
As o'er a field of marigolds 

Our eyes swam o'er the seas ; 
While here the eddies lisped and purled 

Around the island's rim, 
And up from out the underworld 

We saw the mermen swim. 

And it was dawn and middle day 

And midnight — for the moon 
On silver rounds across the bay 

Had climbed the skies of June — 
And here the glowing, glorious king 

Of day ruled o'er the realm, 
AVith stars of midnight glittering 

About the diadem. 

The sea-gull reeled on languid wing 

In circles round the mast ; 
We heard the songs the sirens sing 

As we went sailing past, 
And up and down the golden sands 

A thousand fairy throngs 
Flung at us from their flashing hand 

The echoes of their songs. 

James Whitcome Riley. 

THE DAYS OF THE MODERN BELLE. 

OH, for the time of the minuette 
When stately movement on movement 
swayed, 
And soft eyes spoke some quaint regret ; 
Gone are the days of the old brocade ; 
In the tripping time of the waltz is made 

Some deft enchantment, and 'neath its spell 
Her dainty heart on his sleeve is laid. 
These are the da)s of the modern belle. 

When Hetty was pretty in homespun yet. 

And every fold her grace betrayed — 
Ah, sombre jewels of coral and jet ! 

Gone are the da\s of the old brocade. 
From the shops of Paris, ■(ve find obeyed 

The hints that Yirot and Worth may tell. 
And gentle simplicity flees dismayed. 

These are the days of the modern belle. 

'Till now grave memories anxiously fret 
At the glittering splendor and gay parade, 



And sigh for the times of Polly and Bet — 
Gone are the days of the old brocade, 

When softest blushes in beauty strayed. 

And brimming dimples would come — ah well ! 

Those gentle years were meant to fade — 
These are the days of the modern belle. 

Ah, memory listens to fancy's aid. 
Gone are the days of the old brocade ; 
And their very follies our loves impel. 
These are the days of the modern belle. 

THE FORTUNATE ISLES. 

YOU sail and you seek for the Fortunate Isles, 
The old Greek Isles of the yellow bird's 
song ? 
Then steer straight on through the watery miles, 

Straight on, straight on, and you can't go wrong. 
Nay, not to the left, nay, not the right. 
But on, straight on, and the Isles are in sight, 
The Fortunate Isles where the yellow birds sing, 
And life lies girt with a golden ring. 

These Fortunate Isles they are not so far. 

They lie within reach of the lowliest door; 
You can see them gleam by the twilight star; 

You can hear them sing by the moon's white shore. 
Nay, never look back! Those leveled grave-stones, 
They were landing-steps ; they were steps unto 

thrones 
Of glory for souls that have sailed before. 
And have set white feet on the fortunate shore. 

And what are the names of the Fortunate Isles ? 

Why, duty and love and a large content. 
Lo ! these are the Isles of the watery miles 

That God let down from the firmament ; 
Lo ! duty and love, and a true man's trust ; 
Your forehead to God, and your feet in the dust ; 
Lo ! duty and love, and sweet babe's smiles. 
And these, O friend, are the Fortunate Isles. 

Joaquin Miller. 



T 



IT NEVER COMES AGAIN. 

HERE are gains for all our losses, 

There are balms for all our pains ; 
But when youth, the dream, departs. 
It takes something from our hearts, 
And it never comes again. 

We are stronger, and are better, 

LTnder manhood's sterner reign; 
Still we feel that something sweet 
Followed youth with flying feet, 
And will never come again. 

Something beautiful is vanished. 

And we sigh for it in vain ; 
We behold it everywhere. 
On the earth and in the air ; 

But it never comes again. 

R. H. Stoddard. 



THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT 



417 




T 



HE bird that soars on highest wing, 
Builds on the ground its lowly nest, 

And she that doth most sweetly sing, 
Sings in the shade when all things rest. 
J. M. Bentlev. 



GLORY. 



THE crumbling tombstone and the gorgeous 
mausoleum, the sculptured marble, and the 
venerable cathedral, all bear witness to the 
instinctive desire within us to be remembered by 
coming generations. But how short-lived is the 
immortality which the works of our hands can 
confer ! The noblest monuments of art that the 
world has ever seen are covered with the soil of 
twenty centuries. The works of the age of Peri- 
cles lie at the foot of the Acropolis in indiscrim- 
inate ruin. The ploughshare turns up the marble 
which the hand of Phidias had chiselled into 
beauty, and the Mussulman has folded his flock 
beneath the falling columns of the temple of 
Minerva. 

But even the works of our hands too frequently 
survive the memory of those who have created 
them. And were it otherwise, could we thus carry 
down to distant ages the recollection of our exist- 
ence, it were surely childish to waste the energies 
of an immortal spirit in the effort to make it 
known to other times, that a Deing whose name 
was written with certain letters of the alphabet, 
once lived, and flourished, and died. Neither 
27 



sculptured marble, nor stately column, can reveal 
to other ages the lineaments of the spirit; and 
these alone can embalm our memory in the hearts 
of a grateful posterity. As the stranger stands 
beneath the dome of St. Paul's, or treads, with 
religious awe, the silent aisles of Westminster 
Abbey, the sentiment, which is breathed from 
every object around him, is, the utter emptiness 
of sublunary glory. 

Francis Wavland. 

SOMETIME. 

I AM waiting for the shadows round me lying 
To drift away ; 
I am waiting for the sunlight, always flying, 
To come and stay ; 
I know there's light beyond the cloudy curtain, 

A light sublime ! 
That it will shine on me I now am certain, 
Sometime ! sometime ! 

I am waiting for the summer's golden lustre — 

Now far away — 
When golden fruits around my life shall cluster 

Each sunny day ! 



418 



THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT. 



We read of fadeless flowers in fabled story, 

In far-off clime, 
And I shall pluck them in their pristine glory. 

Sometime ! sometime ! 

Then I shall hear the voice of loved ones call me 

To their dear side ; 
And I shall then, whatever may befall me. 

Rest satisfied ! 
For on my ear sweet notes of love shall tremble 

In matchless rhyme, 
From heart and lips that never can dissemble. 

Sometime ! sometime ! 

I am waiting ; but at times I grow so weary — 

Far seems the day 
When all the pain which makes our life so dreary 

Shall pass away. 
I know the heart oft filled with tones of sadness. 

Like funeral chime. 
Shall echo with songs of love and gladness. 

Sometime ! sometime ! 

HosEA Q. Blaisdell. 

AN OLD VAGABOND. 

HE was old and alone, and he sat on a stone 
to rest for awhile from the road ; 
His beard was white, and his eye was bright, 
and his wrinkles overflowed 
With a mild content at the way life went ; and I 

closed the book on my knee : 
"I will venture a look in this living book," I 
thought, as he greeted me. 

And I said: "My friend, have you time to spend 
to tell me what makes you glad?" 

*' Oh, ay, my lad," with a smile; " I'm glad that 
I'm old, yet am never sad !" 

"But why?" said I; and his merry eye made 

answer as much as his tongue : 
"Because," said he, "I am poor and free who 

was rich and a slave when young." 

John Boyle O'Reilly. 

THE PITY OF THE PARK FOUNTAIN. 

> 'T^ WAS a summery day in the last of May — 
I Pleasant in sun or shade ; 

*■ And the hours went by, as the poets say, 
Fragrant and fair on their flowery way ; 
And a hearse crept slowly through Broadway — 
And the fountain gaily played. 

The fountain played right merrily. 

And the world looked bright and gay ; 

And a youth went by, with a restless eye, 

Whose heart was sick and whose brain was dry ; 

And he prayed to God that he might die — 
A.nd the fountain played away. 



Uprose the spray like a diamond throne. 

And the drops like music rang — 
And of those who marvelled how it shone, 
Was a proud man, left, in his shame, alone; 
And he shut his teeth with a smothered groan — 

And the fountain sweetly sang. 

And a rainbow spanned it changefully. 

Like a bright ring broke in twain ; 
And the pale, fair girl, who stopped to see. 
Was sick with the pangs of poverty — 
And from hunger to guilt she chose to flee 

As the rainbow smiled again. 

And all as gay, on another day. 

The morning will have shone ; 
And at noon, unmarked, through bright Broadway, 
A hearse will take its silent way ; 
And the bard who sings will have passed away — 

And the fountain will play on ! 

N. P. Willis. 

UNDER THE LEAVES. 

INTO the lap of the bare brown earth. 
Stripped of her beautiful golden sheaves, 
As if in sympathy for her dearth, 
Flutter and nestle the autumn leaves ; 
And the lonely landscape hides away 
Her face, deep-lined with sad decay. 
Under the leaves ! 

Down from the tall old forest trees 

The leafy showers gently fall. 
And, taking the wings of the passing breeze, 

Softly they cover the earth like a pall. 
Ah, would that we the past might fold, 
Of blighted hopes and dreams untold. 
Under the leaves ! 

Under the leaves of the flying years 

Oh, strive, thou weary soul, to lay 
The care and sorrow, the bitter tears. 
The dreary burden of yesterday — 
Away deep down in the heart's recess, 
Under the leaves of forgetfulness. 

Under the leaves. 

Blanche Buswell. 

THE WATER THAT HAS PASSED. 

LISTEN to the water-mill, 
Through the livelong day, 
How the clanking of the wheels 
Wears the hours away ! 
Languidly the autumn wind 

Stirs the greenwood leaves ; 
From the fields the reapers sing. 

Binding up the sheaves, 
And a proverb haunts my mind, 

As a spell is cast ; 
" The mill will never grind 

With the water that has passed." 



THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT. 



Take the lesson to thyself, 
Loving heart and true;' 

Golden years are fleeting' by, 
Youth is passing too; 



419 



Work while yet the daylight shines, 
Man of strength and will ; 



Never does the streamlet 
Useless by the mill. 



slide 




Learn to make the most of life 

Lose no happy day; 
Time will never bring thee back 

Chances swept away. 
Leave no tender word "unsaid ; 
^ Love while life shall last— 
" The mill will never grind 

With the water that has passed." 



Wait not till to-morrow's sun 

Beams upon the way; 
All that thou canst call' thine own 

Lies in thy to-day. 
Power, intellect and health 
^^ May not, can not last; 
" The mill will never grind 
With the water that has passed. ■ 



420 



THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT. 



Oh, the wasted hours of life 

That have drifted by; 
Oh, the good we might have done, 

Lost without a sigh, 
Love that we might once have saved 

By a single word ; 
Thoughts conceived but never penned, 

Perishing unheard. 
Take the proverb to thine heart. 

Take ! oh, hold it fast !— 
"The mill will never grind 

With the water that has passed." 

COURAGE. 

COURAGE ! — Nothing can withstand 
Long a wronged, undaunted land; 
If the hearts within her be 
True unto themselves and thee, 
Thou freed giant, liberty ! 
Oh ! no mountain-nymph art thou, 
AVhen the helm is on thy brow. 
And the sword is in thy hand. 
Fighting for thy own good land ! 

Courage ! — Nothing e'er withstood 
Freemen fighting for their good ; 
Armed with all their father's fame. 
They will win and wear a name. 
That shall go to endless glory. 
Like the gods of old Greek story, 
Raised to heaven and heavenly worth, 
For the good they gave to earth. 

Courage ! — There is none so poor, 
(None of all who wrong endure,) 
None so humble, none so weak. 
But may flush his father's cheek; 
And his maiden's dear and true, 
With the deeds that he may do. 
Be his days as dark as night, 
He may make himself a light. 
What though sunken be the sun ! 
There are stars when day is done ! 

Courage ! — Who will be a slave. 
That have strength to dig a grave. 
And therein his fetters hide. 
And lay a tyrant by his side? 
Courage ! — Hope, howe'er he fly 
For a time, can never die ! 
Courage, therefore, brother men ! 
Cry " God ! and to the fight again !" 

Bakry Cornwall. 



THE FIRESIDE. 

EAR Chloe, while the busy crowd, 
The vain, the wealthy, and the proud. 
In folly's maze advance ; 
Though singularity and pride 
Be called our choice, we'll step aside, 
Nor join the giddy dance. 



D 



From the gay world we'll oft retire 
To our own family and fire, 

Where love our hours employs ; 
No noisy neighbor enters here, 
No intermeddling stranger near, 

To spoil our heartfelt joys. 

If solid happiness we prize. 
Within our breast this jewel lies, 

And they are fools who roam ; 
The world hath nothing to bestow — 
From our own selves our bliss must flow. 

And that dear hut, our home. 

Our portion is not large, indeed ; 
But then how little do we need, 

For nature's calls are few; 
In this the art of living lies, 
To want no more than may suffice. 

And make that little do. 

We'll therefore relish with content 
Whate'er kind Providence has sent. 

Nor aim beyond our power ; 
For, if our stock be very small, 
'Tis prudence to enjoy it all. 

Nor lose the present hour. 

To be resigned when ills betide. 
Patient when favors are denied. 

And pleased with favors given — 
Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part. 
This is that incense of the heart. 

Whose fragrance smells to heaven. 

Nathaniel Cotton. 

ROVING NED. 

DIVORCED, did they say? What I, Roving 
Ned, 
Divorced in disgrace from the woman I wed 
In the wealth of her beauty, five summers to-night, 
'Mid the chiming of bells and happiness bright; 
O God, can it be? Have I fallen so low? 
Divorced from that bride — and I loved her so ? 

Was that Eden a dream? Was that husband's 

first kiss 
But an apple of Sodom in the feast of my bliss? 
Were those vows that I spoke but the words of 

untruth — 
A perjurer's lie to the love of his youth? 
Were those visions I saw but a mirage of fate 
And the words of endearment the seeds of a hate? 

Was that life in the cottage a dream of the past ? 
And the joy that it brought us too precious to 

last? 
Did the child that was sent us return in its flight 
To escape the dark shadows now clouding this 

night ? 
Were our hopes, then so bright, to be shrouded in 

gloom. 
And the roses so sweet but the bloom of the tomb? 



THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT. 



421' 



Bound helpless in sin ! Ah, I see it now, plain. 
And thou, damning glass, hath enwoven the chain ! 
O, sparkle and gleam, but I know thee too well ; 
Thy diamonds of joy are the jewels of hell. 



I see a lone wanderer over the earth, 

Now shunned and disowned by the kin of his 

birth, 
So weary of life, but too sinful to die. 




The wealth of thv pleasure is sorrow and care 
And the spell of thy charm but the gall of despair. 

Ah, sparkle and glimmer, I see in thy tide 
The hand that was raised to a once-worshiped bride. 
Ah, sparkle and glitter ! I see a dread flight 
From a drunkard enraged through a cold winter's 

night. 
That husband so proud but a wreck is now left. 
Of love and affection and manhood bereft. 



With the pangs of remorse 'neath the frowns from 

on high. 
Far downward he sinks till his oaths sound the 

knell 
Of a soul that is tottering on the verge of a hell. 

Cursed be thee, glass ! Is thy conquest complete? 
No ! I will grind thee, fiend yet 'neath my feet ! 
By a mother's last prayer, by the home of ray 
birth. 



422 



THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT. 



I will dash thee in fragments down swift to the 

earth ! 
By the love of that woman that once my name 

bore 
I will rise from a slave to my manhood once more. 

Come, friends of my youth, there's a soul to be 

saved. 
Give me of thy strength, there are storms to be 

braved. 
Come back, O my will, with all of thy might 
And make me a giant to battle for right. 
To earth and to heaven again I will call 
And snatch even life from the folds of a pall. 

God help me to stand by the vows that I make ; 
God help me, if any, in weakness I break ; 
Lead me not to the tempter, but guide me in right 
Until I am strong in thy mercy and might. 
Then lead back my bride to her husband again 
And link with thy blessing the now parted chain. 
Sherman D. Richardson. 

SYMPATHY. 

SYMPATHY has never a harder task that when 
it finds itself in the presence of suffering 
which it is powerless to alleviate, and it 
never is of greater value or greater helpfulness 
than just there and then. It is comparatively a 
light task to bend in sympathy over the suffering, 
when one's every touch takes away some of the 
pain, and the hopeful eyes of the patient follow 
with gratitude every motion of him that ministers. 

But when the wound is beyond human skill, and 
all that one can do, is to stand by in silent or in 
softly spoken sympathy, and see a loved one 
racked with pain which none can remove, then 
comes the truest test of the worth of sympathy. 
The kindly offices of sympathy are then most 
precious, simply because they cost so largely, and 
can effect so little. But there are deeper needs in 
the human soul than the alleviations of either 
bodily pain or mental anguish; and it is these 
needs which are met by the presence of that sym- 
pathy which is so powerless for things merely 
material. Though the pain may be no whit the 
less, a new strength comes to the sufferer when he 
knows that a fellow-heart is suffering with him, 
and is sending up aspirations, though seemingly in 
vain, for his quick deliverance. 

The wounded beast may have no other need 
than to crawl away into some dark spot and moan 
its life out in loneliness; but from cradle to grave 
no man lives to himself alone, and none has a 
right to refuse, when need comes, to fulfill the 
kindly duty of comforting his brother. Alleviate 
bodily and mental pain when you can ; but when 
the call of duty comes for your sympathy in a case 
where you can do neither, know that your ready 
answer to that call will do more for the sufferer 



than the outward eye will see ; for by your pres- 
ence you will share the burden which you cannot 
lift, and your strength will strengthen the weak- 
ness which you cannot remove. 



"O 



VICTORIA'S TEARS. 

MAIDEN, heir of kings, 
A king has left his place ; 
The majesty of death has swept 
All others from his face. 
And thou, upon thy mother's breast, 

No longer lean adown — 
But take the glory for the rest, 
And rule the land that loves thee best." 
The maiden wept ; 
She wept to wear a crown ! 

They decked her courtly halls — 

They reined her hundred steeds — 
They shouted at her jjalace gate, 

" A noble queen succeeds ! " 
Her name has stirred the mountains' sleep, 

Her praise has filled the town : 
And mourners God had stricken deep 
Looked hearkening up, and did not weep ! 
Alone she wept, 

Who wept to wear a crown. 

She saw no purple shine. 

For tears had dimmed her eyes : 
She only knew her childhood's flowers 

Were happier pageantries ! 
And while the heralds played their part 

For million shouts to drown — 
"God save the Queen," from hill to mart — 
She heard, through all her beating heart, 
And turned and we])t ! 

She wept, to wear a crown. 

God save thee, weeping queen ! 

Thou shalt be well beloved, 
The tyrant's sceptre cannot move 

As those pure tears have moved ; 
The nature in thine eye we see. 

Which tyrants cannot own — 
The love that guardeth liberties ; 
Strange blessing on the nation lies. 
Whose sovereign wept. 

Yea, wept, to wear its crown. 

God bless thee, weeping queen, 

With blessing more divine ; 
And fill with better love than earth's, 

That tender heart of thine ; 
That vifhen the thrones of earth shall be 

As low as graves brought down, 
A pierced hand may give to thee. 
The crown which angels wept to see. 
Thou wilt not weep 

To wear that heavenly crown. 

Elizabeth B. Browning. 



THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT. 



423 



DUST FROM THE ROAD OF LIFE. 

SOME of the dust from the road of life 
Has fallen upon my hair, 
And silver threads from my raven locks 
Are gleaming out here and there ; 
And, oh, these meshes of silver gray 
Tell of the moments flown — 



For threatening clouds o'erspread the sky, 
And the night seems very near. 

By faith I turn — in the rosy East 

A beautiful star I see 
Stand o'er the manger in Bethlehem, 

And it seems to shine for me ; 
And from the city of golden spires, 

Whose gates just now are ajar, 
I catch a radiant beam of light 

From the bright and morning star. 

And when upon Jordan's restless wave 

I shall launch my way-worn bark, 
The "dust from the road of life" shall fall 

From my tresses long and dark ; 

And the lines of care upon my brow. 

And the pain within my breast. 

Shall pass away as my 
bark draws near 
This beautiful land of 
rest. 

Mrs. Louis Bedford. 




Of the day that's draw- 
ing to a close, 
And the night that's 
coming on. 



But 



the coming night 

cold and dark 
And my heart is filled with 

fears, 
^% thought flies backward on weary wings, 

O'er the waste of vanished years; 
And in the castle of memory 

Few jewels are treasured there ; 
But dross and rubbish that tell of earth 

Are visible everywhere. 

Even on the faithful register, 
That hangs in memory's hall, 

I find only worthless deeds are traced — 
They are dark and blotted all ; 

Hence, as approaches the eve of life, 
My spirit shrinks back with fear, 



THE CROWN OF LIFE. 

FOR every leaf the loveliest flower 
Which beauty sighs for from her bower, 
For every star a drop of dew, 
For every sun a sky of blue, 
For every heart a heart as true ! 

For every tear by pity shed. 

Upon a fellow-sufferer's head. 

Oh ! be a crown of glory given ; — 

Such crowns as saints to gain have striven. 

Such crowns as seraphs wear in heaven. 



424 



THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT. 



I 



For all who toil at honest fame, 
A proud, a pure, a deathless name — 
For all who love, who loving bless, 
Be life one long, kind, close caress, 
Be life all love, all happiness ! 

J. P. Bailey. 

THE CHAPERON. 

TAKE my chaperon to the play — 
She thinks she's taking me — 

And the gilded youth who owns the box, 
A proud young man is he. 

But how would his young heart be hurt 
If he could only know 
That not for his sweet sake I go, 
Nor yet to see the trifling show; 

But to see my chaperon flirt. 

Her eyes beneath her snowy hair 
They sparkle young as mine ; 

There's scarce a wrinkle in her hand 
So delicate and fine. 

And when my chaperon is seen. 
They come from everywhere — 
The dear eld boys with silvery hair. 
With old-time grace and old-time air, 

To greet their old-time queen. 

They bow as my young Midas here 
Will never learn to bow, 

(The dancing masters do not teach 
That gracious reverence now) ; 

With voices quavering just a bit. 
They play their old parts through, 
They talk of folks who used to woo, 
Of hearts that broke in 'fifty-two — 

Now none the worse for it. 

And as those aged crickets chirp 
I watch my chaperon's face, 

And see the dear old features take 
A new and tender grace — 

And in her happy eyes I see 
Her youth awakening bright. 
With all its hope, desire, delight — 
Ah, me ! I wish that I were quite 

As young — as young as she ! 

TRUE NOBILITY. 

IT does not consist in a pompous display of 
wealth, a high-sounding name, a long line of 
ancestry whom the world delighted to honor ; 
nor, yet, in jeweled crowns, steel-emblazoned 
armor, or costly apparel of purple and fine linen. 
Indeed, these adjuncts as frequently indicate the 
absence of a truly noble heart and mind as other- 
wise. It too often happens that the form instead 
of the substance of things is the object desired, 
and as so many are incapable of distinguishing 
between appearance and reality, it is a very easy 



matter to dazzle their eyes with a false display of 
greatness and goodness. Since the world sets so 
much value on a lofty title, it is too frequently the 
case that its possessor makes little effort to merit 
the name he bears. That man is not to be relied 
upon who makes his name and inheritance the 
stepping-stone to his entrance into good society. 

It is not an evidence of nobility to do a praise- 
worthy act at the risk of personal safety when you 
have hopes of a liberal reward. There are many 
who will expose their lives to save that of another 
when they have reason to believe that the risk in- 
volved will be amply remunerated who would refuse 
to do so when they have no such expectations. We 
pay homage to men who have slain thousands on 
the bloody field of war and won many battles for 
the sake of victory. We call them great ; yet a 
rough sailor who plunges into the sea to save a 
drowning child for humanity's sake alone, has a 
far nobler heart beating within his sunburnt bosom 
than the victor of a thousand battles. Were I 
called upon to name four words as synonymous 
with the word nobility, I would say truth, honesty, 
bravery, charity. 



B 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

LACK shadows fall 
From the lindens tall. 
That lift aloft their massive wall 
Against the southern sky ; 



And from the realms 
Of the shadowy elms 
A tide-like darkness overwhelms 
The fields that round us lie. 

But the night is fair. 
And everywhere 
A warm, soft vapor fills the air. 
And distant sounds seem near ; 

And above, in the light 
Of the star-lit night. 
Swift birds of passage wing their flight 
Through the dewy atmosphere. 

I hear the beat 
Of their pinions fleet. 
As from the land of snow and sleet 
They seek a southern lea. 

I hear the cry 
Of their voices high 
Falling dreamily through the sky, 
But their forms I cannot see. 

O, say not so ! 

Those sounds that flow 

In murmurs of delight and woe 

Come not from wings of birds. 



THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT. 



425 



They are the throngs 
Of the poet's songs, 

Murmurs of pleasures, and pains, and wrongs, 
The sound of wingdd words. 

This is the cry 
Of souls, that high 
On toiling, beating pinions fly, 
Seeking a warmer clime. 

From their distant flight 
Through realms of light 
It falls into our world of night, 

With the murmuring sound of rhyme. 
H. W. Longfellow. 



"D' 



DIMES AND DOLLARS. 

, IMES and dollars ! dollars and dimes ! " 
Thus the old miser rang the chimes, 
As he sat by the side of an open box. 

With ironed angles and massive locks ; 

And he heaped tiie glittering coin on high. 

And cried in delirious ecstasy — 

" Dimes and dollars ! dollars and dimes ! 

Ye are the ladders by which man climbs 

Over his fellows. Musical chimes ! 

Dimes and dollars ! dollars and dimes ! " 

A sound on the gong and the miser rose, 

And his laden coffer did quickly close. 

And locked secure. " These are the times 

For a man to look after his dollars and dimes. 

A letter ! Ha ! from my prodigal son. 

The old tale — poverty — pshaw, begone ! 

Why did he marry when I forbade ? 

Let him rest as he can on the bed he has made, 

As he has sown, so he must reap; 

But I my dollars secure will keep. 

A sickly wife and starving times ! 

He should have wed with dollars and dimes." 

Thickly the hour of midnight fell ; 

Doors and windows were bolted well. 

" Ha ! " cried the miser, " not so bad ; — 

A thousand guineas to-day I've made. 

Money makes money ; these are the times 

To double and treble the dollars and dimes. 

Now to sleep, and to-morrow to plan — 

Rest is sweet to a wearied man." 

And he fell to sleep with the midnight chimes, 

Dreaming of glittering dollars and dimes. 

The sun rose high and its beaming ray 

Into the miser's room found way. 

It moved from the foot till it lit the head 

Of the miser's low, uncurtained bed ; 

And it seemed to say to him, " Sluggard, awake; 

Thou hast a thousand dollars to make. 

Up, man, up ! " How still was the place. 

As the bright rav fell on the miser's face ! 

Ha ! the old miser at last is dead ; 



Dreaming of gold his spirit fled, 
And left behind but an earthly clod. 
Akin to the dross that he made his god. 

What now avails the chinking chimes 
Of dimes and dollars ! dollars and dimes? 
Men of the timp-,! men of the times ! 
Content may not rest with dollars and dimes. 
Use them well, and their use sublimes 
The mineral dross of the dollars and dimes. 
Use them ill, and a thousand crimes 
Spring from a coffer of dollars and dimes. 
Men of the times ! men of the times ! 
Let charity dwell with your dollars and dimes. 

Henry Mills. 



T 



THE TOWN PUMP. 

HE pump, straight as a soldier stands : 
Good friend of mine, 
I clasp his hand with my two hands, 
And shake it hard and heartilv. 
Although 'tis not his turn to trea , 
He stands out in the open street. 
And pours his wine 
With wasteful hospitality. 

With grateful heart I drink my fill, 

From his full cup ; 
And others come, and drink, and still 

The crystal current freely flows 
For all the thirsty multitude ; 
The beverage pure that nature brewed 
To cheer us up. 
Here's to the drink the pump bestows! 

Nor rich nor poor the pump will slight. 

Gentile and Jew, 
Christian, Moslem and Muscovite, 

Thy bounteous gift alike may share; 
Thine is a noble, generous deed, 
That washes out the lines of creed. 
And, like the dew, 
Falls pure and stainless in the air. 

A benefactor pure thou art, 

To thirsty souls. 
I feel a quicker pulse of heart, 

When my hand touches thine, old friend. 
Thy shadow marks the narrow way. 
Which, followed, will not lead astray 
Where tempting bowls 
May bring life to a bitter end. 

There, like fair Rachel at the well, 

A maiden stands, 
Will Jacob come and break the spell 

Of her mysterious revery ? 
Oh, dear old pump, the people's friend, 
May benedictions without end 
Fill the clean hands 
That clasp thy hand outreached and free. 
George W. Bungay. 



426 



THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT. 



FAULTS. 

A MAN has a large emerald, but it is "fea- 
thered," and he knows an expert would 
say, "What a pity that it has such a 
feather ! " it will not bring a quarter as much as 
it otherwise would ; and he cannot take any sat- 
isfaction in it. A man has a diamond ; but 
there is a flaw in it, and it is not the diamond 
that he wants. A man has an opal, but it is 
imperfect, and he is Dissatisfied with it. An 
opal is covered with little seams, but they must 
be the right kind of seams. If it has a crack 
running clear across, it is marred, no matter 



water, usually. To get to it you must wade or 
leap from bog to bog, tearing your raiment and 
soiling yourself. I see a great many noble men, 
but they stand in a swamp of faults. They 
bear fruit that you fain would pluck, but there 
are briars and thistles and thorns all about it ; 
and to get it you must make your way through 
all these hindrances. 

How many persons there are that are sur- 
rounded by a thousand little petty faults ! They 
are so hedged in by these things that you lose all 
the comfort and joy you would otherwise have in 
them. Henry Ward Beecher. 




how large it is, and no matter how wonderful 
its reflections are. And this man is worried all 
the time because he knows his opal is imper- 
fect ; and it would worry him even if he knew 
that nobody else noticed it. 

So it is in respect to dispositions, and in re- 
spect to character at large. Little cracks, little 
flaws, little featherings in them, take away their 
exquisiteness and beauty, and take away that 
fine finish which make moral art. How many 
noble men there are who are diminished, who 
are almost wasted, in their moral influence ! 
How many men are like the red mapleJ It is 
one of the most gorgeous trees, both in spring, 
blossoming, and in autumn, wtth its crimson 
foliage. But it standi knee-deep iu swamp- 



VASTNESS OF THE SEA. 

THE sea ! the sea ! the open sea ! 
The blue, the fresh, the ever free ! 
Without a mark, without a bound, 
It runneth the earth's wide regions round ; 
It plays with the clouds, it mocks the skies, 
Or like a cradled creatuce lies. 

Barry Cornwall. 

THE CHIMES OF AMSTERDAM. 

FAR up above the city. 
In the gray old belfry tower, 
The chimes ring out their music 
Each day at the twilight hour , 



THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT. 



427 



Above the din and the tumult, 
And the rush of the busy street, 

You can hear their solemn voices 
In an anthem clear and sweet. 

When the busy day is dying, 

And the sunset gates, flung wide, 
Mark a path of crimson glory 

Upon the restless tide. 
As the white-winged ships drop anchor, 

And furl their snowy sails, 
While the purple twilight gathers, 

And the glowing crimson pales; 

Then from the old gray belfry 

The chimes peal out again. 
And a hush succeeds the tumult. 

As they ring their sweet refrain ; 
No sound of discordant clangor 

Mars the perfect melody. 
But each, attuned by a master hand. 

Has its place in the harmony. 

I climbed the winding stairway 

That led to the belfry tower, 
As the sinking sun in the westward 

Heralded twilight's hour ; 
For I thought that surely the music 

Would be clearer and sweeter far 
Than when through the din of the city 

It seemed to float from afar. 

But lo, as I neared the belfry. 

No sound of music was there. 
Only a brazen clangor 

Disturbed the quiet air ! 
The ringer stood at a keyboard, 

Far down beneath the chimes, 
And patiently struck the noisy keys. 

As he had uncounted times. 

He had never heard the music, 

Though every day it swept 
Out over the sea and the city. 

And in lingering echoes crept. 
He knew not how many sorrows 

Were cheered by the evening strain, 
And how men paused to listen 

As they heard the sweet refrain. 

He only knew his duty. 

And he did it with patient care ; 
But he could not hear the music 

That flooded the quiet air; 
Only the jar and the clamor 

Fell harshly on his ear, 
And he missed the yellow chiming 

That every one else could hear. 

So we from our quiet watch-towers 
Mav be sending a sweet refrain. 

And gladdening the lives of the lowly 
Though we hear not a single strain. 



Our work may seem but a discord, 
Though vi'e do the best we can ; 

But others will hear the music. 
If we carry out God's plan. 

Far above a world of sorrow, 

And o'er the eternal sea. 
It will blend with angelic anthems 

In sweetest harmony ; 
It will ring in lingering echoes 

Through the corridors of the sky, 
And the strains of earth's minor music 

Will swell the strains on high. 

Minnie E. Kenney. 

ONLY FRIENDS. 

SUMMER'S freshness fell around us, 
Nature dreamed its sweetest dream. 
Every balmy evening found us 
By the meadow or the stream, 
With our hearts as free from sadness 

As the sunshine heaven sends; 
Youth's bright garden bloomed in gladness, 
Where we wandered — only friends. 

Not a word of love was spoken, 

No hot blushes flushed in red ; 
Love's first sleep was left unbroken, 

Bitter tears were never shed. 
We were young and merry-hearted, 

Dreaming not of future ends. 
And without a sigh we parted ; 

Fate had made us — only friends. 

But a little germ of sorrow 

Wakened in my heart's recess. 
When I wandered on the morrow 

By our haunts of happiness. 
And this germ found deeper rooting 

As the weary days wore on. 
Till I felt a blossom shooting 

In love's garden all alone. 

No kind fate threw us together, 

We had missed the lucky tide ; 
Golden-gilded summer weather 

Not forever doth abide. 
But for me, though vainly sighing 

For a love time never sends, 
Still is left this thought undying, 

We, alas ! were — only friends. 

THE HELPING HAND. 

HE timid hand stretched forth to aid 

A brother in his need, 
The kindly word in grief's dark hour 
That jiroves the friend indeed, 
The plea for mercy softly breathed 
When justice threatens nigh. 
The sorrows of a contrite heart — 
The.se thinf:js shall never die. 



T 



428 



THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT. 



LIFE'S WINTER. 

^nn' IS done! dread winter spreads his latest 

I glooms, 

•■• And reigns tremendous o'er the conquered 
year. 
How dead the vegetable kingdom lies ! 
How dumb the tuneful ! horror wide extends 




His desolate domain ! 

hold, fond man ! 
See here thy pictured life : 
pass some few years, 
Thy flowering spring, thy summer's ardent strength, 
Thy sober autumn fading into age. 
And pale concluding winter comes at last, 
And shuts the scene. 

James Thomson. 



M 



THE OLD REAPER. 

ID the brown-haired and the black-haired 
men, 
With ruddy faces aglow, 
The old man stood in the harvest field, 
With a head as white as snow. 
" Let me cut a sheaf, my boys," he said 
" Before it is time to go." 

They put the sickle within his hand: 
He bowed to the windy wheat; 



Pleasantly fell the golden ears, 
With the corn flowers at his feet. 

He lifted a handful, thoughtfully ; 
It was ripe and full and sweet. 

" Many and many a sheaf," he said, 
" I have cut in the years gone past; 

And many and many a sheaf these arms 
On the harvest wains have cast. 

But, children dear, I am weary now, 
And I think this is — the last. 



"Let me rest awhile beneath 
the tree ; 
For 1 like to watch you go. 
With sickles bright, through the 
ripe, full wheat. 
And to feel the fresh wind 
blow." 
And they spread their working 
coats for him 
'Mong the grasses sweet and 
low. 

When the sun grew high they 
came again. 
For a drink and their bread 
and meat ; 
And in the shadow he sleeping 
lay. 
With sunshine on his feet. 
Like a child at night, outspent 
witli play. 
He lay in slumber sweet. 



TIME'S FLIGHT. 

05KR the level plains, where mountains greet 
me as I go, 
O'er the desert waste, where fountains 
at my bidding flow. 
On the boundless beam by day, on the cloud by 

night, 
I am riding hence away : who will chain my 
flight? 

War his weary watch was keeping — I have crushed 

his spear ; 
Grief within her bower was weeping — I have dried 

her tear ; 
Pleasure caught a minute's hold — then I hurried 

by, 
Leaving all her banquet cold and her goblet dry. 

Power had won a throne of glory : where is now 

his fame? 
Genius said : " I live in story," who hath heard 

his name? 
Love beneath a myrtle bough whispered " Why so 

fast?" 
And the ro^es on his brow withered as I past. 



THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT 



429 



I have heard the heifer lowing o'er the wild wave's 

bed ; 
I have seen the billow flowing where the cattle fed; 
Where began ray wanderings ? Memory will not 

say ! 
Where will rest my weary wings? Science turns 

away ! 

W. M. Praed. 

TO A FRIEND, 

ON HER RETURN FROM EUROPE. 

HOW smiled the land of France 
Under thy blue eye's glance, 
Light hearted rover ! 
Old walls of chateaux gray, 
Towers of an early day, 
Which the three colors play 
Flauntingly over. 

Now midst the brilliant train 
Thronging the banks of Seine: 

Now midst the splendor 
Of the wild Alpine range, 
Waking with change on change 
Thoughts in thy young heart strange, 

Lovely, and tender. 

Vales, soft Elysian, 
Like those in the vision 

Of Mirza, when, dreaming. 
He saw the long hollow dell, 
Touched by the prophet's spell, 
Into an ocean swell 

With its isles teeming. 

Cliffs wrapped in snows of years, 
Splintering with icy spears 

Autumn's blue heaven: 
Loose rock and frozen slide. 
Hung on the mountain side. 
Waiting their hour to glide 

Downward, storm-driven ! 

Rhine stream, by castle old, 
Baron's and robber's hold, ■ 

Peacefully flowing ; 
Sweeping through vineyards green, 
Or where the cliffs are seen 
O'er the broad wave between 

Grim shadows throwing. 

Or, where St. Peter's dome 
Swells o'er eternal Rome, 

Vast, dim and solemn — 
Hymns ever chanting low — 
Censers swung to and fro — 
Sable stoles sweeping slow 

Cornice and column ! 

Oh, as from each and all 
Will there not voices call 



I 



Evermore back again? 
In the mind's gallery 
Wilt thou not always see 
Dim phantoms beckon thee 

O'er that old track again ? 

New forms thy presence haunt — 
New voices softly chant — 

New faces greet thee ! — 
Pilgrims from many a shrine 
Hallowed by poet's line. 
At memory's magic sign, 

Rising to meet thee. 

And when such visions come 
Unto thy olden home, 

Will they not waken 
Deep thoughts of Him whose hand 
Led thee o'er sea and land 
Back to the household band 

Whence thou wast taken ? 

While, at the sunset time, 
Swells the catliedral's chime. 

Yet, in thy dreaming. 
While to thy spirit's eye. 
Yet the vast mountains lie 
Piled in the Switzer's sky. 

Icy and gleaming : 

Prompter of silent prayer. 
Be the wild picture there 

In the mind's chamber, 
And, through each coming day 
Him, who, as staff and stay. 
Watched o'er thy wandering way, 

Freshly remember. 

So, when the call shall be 
Soon or late unto thee. 

As to all given. 
Still may that picture live, 
All its fair forms survive. 
And to thy spirit give 

Gladness in heaven ! 

J. G. Whittier. 

TEN YEARS AGO. 

TOO am changed — I scarce know why — 

Can feel each flagging pulse decay; 
And youth and health, and visions high, 
Melt like a wreath of snow away; 
Time cannot sure have wrought thee ill; 

Thougli worn in this world's sickening strife, 
In soul and form, I linger still 

In the first summer month of life; 
Yet journey on my path below. 
Oh ! how unlike — ten years ago ! 

But look not thus: I would not give 

The wreck of hopes that thou must share, 



430 



THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT. 



To bid those joyous hours revive, 
When all around me seemed so fair. 

We've wandered on in sunny weather, 

When winds were low, and flowers in bloom. 



Together cleave life's fitful tide ; 
Nor mourn, whatever winds may blow, 
Youth's first wild dreams — ten years ago ! 

Alaric a. Watts. 




IN THE ART GALLERY. 



And hand in hand have kept together, 

And still will keep, 'mid storm and gloom; 
Endeared by ties we could not know 
When life was young — ten years ago ! 

Has fortune frowned ? Her frowns were vain. 
For hearts like ours she could not chill ; 

Have friends proved false ? Their love might 
wane. 
But ours grew fonder, firmer still. 

Twin barks on this world's changing wave. 
Steadfast in calms, in tempests tried ; 

In concert still our fate we'll brave. 



THE ANQEL OF PATIENCE. 

FROM THE GERMAN. 

TO weary hearts, to mourning homes, 
God's meekest angel gently comes : 
No power has he to banish pain, 
Or give us back our lost again : 
And yet in tenderest love, our dear 
And Heavenly Father sends him here. 

There's quiet in that angel's glance, 
There's rest in his still countenance ! 
He mocks no grief with idle cheer. 
Nor wounds with words the mourner's ear ; 



THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT. 



431 



But ills and woes he may not cure 
He kindly trains us to endure. 

Angel of Patience ! sent to calm 
Our feverish brows with cooling palm; 
To lay the storms of hope and fear, 
And reconcile life's smile and tear ; 
The throbs of wounded |)ride to still 
And make our own our Father's will ! 

Oh ! thou who mournest on thy way, 
With longings for the close of day ; 
He walks with thee, that angel kind, 
And gently whispers " Be resigned : 
Bear up, bear on, the end shall tell 
The dear Lord ordereth all things well !" 

J. G. Whittier. 

TWO GRAVES. 

A RICH man died. They laid him down to 
rest 
Upon a fair slope, slanting toward the west, 
And cast about the silence of his tomb 
A marble mausoleum's sacred gloom. 

They hung within its tower, tall and white, 

A chime of sweet-voiced bells ; and every night, 

Just as the red sun sank below the swell 

Of that green hill they tolled his solemn knell. 

Another died. They buried him in haste 

Within a barren field, a weedy waste. 

Rank nettles locked their arms, and thorns were 

sown 
Above his bed, unmarked by cross or stone. 

One lived on many tongues; the other fell 
From human memory ; and both slept well ! 



A 



THE BUILDERS. 

LL are architects of fate. 

Working in these walls of time ; 
Some with massive deeds and great, 
Some with ornaments of rhyme. 



Nothing useless is, or low ; 

Each thing in its place is best ; 
And what seems but idle show 

Strengthens and supports the rest. 

For the structure that we raise, 
Time is with materials filled ; 

Our to-days and yesterdays 

Are the blocks with which we build. 

Truly shape and fashion these ; 

Leave no yawning gaps between ; 
Think not, because no man sees. 

Such things will remain unseen. 



In the elder days of art, 

Builders wrought with greatest care 
Each minute and unseen part ; 

For the gods see everywhere. 

Let us do our work as well. 
Both the unseen and the seen ; 

Make the house, where gods may dwell, 
Beautiful, entire, and clean. 

Else our lives are incomplete. 
Standing in these walls of time. 

Broken stairways, where the feet 
Stumble as they seek to climb. 

Build to-day, then, strong and sure, 
With a firm and ample base ;' 

And ascending and secure 

Shall to-morrow find its place. 

Thus alone can we attain 

To those turrets, where the eye 

Sees the world as one vast plain, 
And one boundless reach of sky. 

H. W. Longfellow. 



A 



A GOOD NEW YEAR. 

" Good New Year," so let it be. 

But, brother, as I take it, 
And so I think you will agree, 
'Twill be just as you make it. 

A "good new year," the wish is good. 

None will presume to doubt it ; 
Still, wishes are but flimsy food, 

What will you do about it ? 

If you have vowed to snap and bite 

At all men as you meet them, 
The year will hardly come out right — 

Men don't want churls to greet them. 

If you're resolved to curse your stars, 

At every little trouble, 
And let your spite breed mimic wars. 

You'll find your sorrows double. 

But should you think that life is short 

And strive to make it sunny. 
My head for yours, you'll find the sport 

Better than all your money. 

The years don't grow upon the trees. 
To pull as you may choose them ; 

They come and go just as they please, 
'Tis yours to mar or use them. 

'Tis well to wish a good new year, 

If wishing so would do it ; 
Kind words, kind deeds, and smiles of cheer, 

Will better help you through it. 

William Lyle. 



432 



THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT 



WE'LL GO TO SEA NO MORE. 



O BLITHELY shines the bonny sun 
Upon the Isle of May, 
And blithely comes the morning tide 
Into St. Andrew's Bay. 
Then up, gudeman, the breeze is fair, 
And up, my braw bairns, three ; 



When squalls capsize our wooden walls, 
A\'hen the French ride at the Nore, 

When Leith meets Aberdour half way, 
We'll go to sea no more — 

No more. 
We'll go to sea no more. 




There's goud in yonder bonny boat 
That sails sae weel the sea ! 

When haddocks leave the Firth o' Forth, 

And mussels leave the shore. 
When oysters climb up Berwick Law, 
We'll go to sea no more — 

No more, 
We'll go to sea no more. 

I've seen the waves as blue as air, 

I've seen them green as grass; 
But I never feared their heaving yet, 

From Grangemouth to the Bass. 
I've seen the sea as black as pitch, 

I've seen it white as snow ; 
But I never feared its foaming yet, 

Though the winds blew high or low. 



I never liked the landsman's life, 

The earth is aye the same ; 
Gie me the ocean for my dower. 

My vessel for my hanie. 
Gie me the fields that no man plows, 

The farm that pays no fee ; 
Gie me the bonny fish that glance 
So gladly through the sea. 

When sails hang flapping on the masts 
While through the waves we snore, 
When in a calm we're tempest-tossed. 
We'll go to sea no more — 

No more, 
We'll go to sea no more. 

The sun is up, and round Inchkeith 
The breezes softly blaw ; 



THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT. 



433 



The gudeman has the lines on board — 

Avva, my bairns, awa ! 
An' ye be back by gloamin' gray, 

An' bright the fire will glow. 
An' in your tales and sangs we'll tell 
How weel the boat ye row. 
When life's last sun gaes feebly down 

And death comes to our door, 
When a' the world's a dream to us, 
We'll go to sea no more — 

No more. 
We'll go to sea no more. 

Adelaide Corbett. 

A HAND PRESSURE. 

ONLY a pressure of the hand, 
Nothing more. 
For on the valley side we stand ! 
The avalanche holds his mighty weight, 

Poised for a breath to overthrow. 
Speak not a word. 'Tis the hush of fate. 
What if the load be tears or snow, 
If a life is o'er ! 

Up on the high, clear mountain peak 

Near the sun, 
There with a calm heart one may speak. 
There where the hawk goes circling round, 

Seeking the cleft she builded in. 
Far above drifts and ice-rent ground, 
At the last height, where the skies begin 
Is the burden done. 

Curtis May. 

LUCK AND LABOR. 

IT has been denied that any other credit than 
that of good luck is due to Fulton for his 
invention. Gentlemen would have us suppose 
that good luck is the parent of all that we admire 
in science or in arms. If this be so, why, then, 
indeed, what a bubble is reputation ! How vain 
and how idle are the anxious days and sleepless 
nights devoted to the service of one's country ! 
Admit this argument and you strip from the brow 
of the scholar his bay, and from those of the states- 
man and soldier their laurel. 

Why do you deck with chaplets the statue of the 
Father of his Country, if good luck, and good luck 
alone, be all that commends him to our gratitude 
a.id love ? A member of this House retorts, " Bad 
luck would have made Washington a traitor." Ay, 
but in whose estimation ? Did the great and holy 
jirinciples which produced and governed our Revo- 
lution depend, for their righteousness and truth, 
upon success or defeat ? Would Washington, had 
he suffered as a rebel on the scaffold — would 
Washington have been regarded as a traitor by 
Warren and Hancock and Greene and Hamilton 
— by the crowd of patriots who encompassed him, 
28 



partners of his toil and sharers of his patriotism ? 
Was it good luck that impelled Columbus, through 
discouragement, conspiracy and poverty, to perse- 
vere in his path of danger, until this western world 
blessed his sight, and rewarded his energy and 
daring ? Does the gentleman emulate the glory 
of the third king of Rome, TuUus Hostillus — and 
would he erect in our own land a temple to for- 
tune ? It cannot be that he would seriously pro- 
mulgate such views ; — that he would take from 
human renown all that gives it dignity and worth, 
by making it depend less on the virtue of the in- 
dividual than on his luck ! 

Ogden Hoffman. 

ROCK ME TO SLEEP. 

BACKWARD, turn backward, O time, in your 
flight. 
Make me a child again just for to-night ! 
Mother, come back from the echoless shore, 
Take me again to your heart as of yore ; 
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care. 
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair ; 
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep ; — 
Rock me to sleep, mother — rock me to sleep ! 

Backward, flow backward, oh, tide of the years ! 
I am so weary of toil and of tears — 
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain — 
Take them, and give me my childhood again ! 
I have grown weary of dust and decay — 
Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away ; 
Weary of sowing for others to reap ; — 
Rock me to sleep, mother — rock me to sleep ! 

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue. 
Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you ! 
Many a summer the grass has grown green. 
Blossomed and faded, our faces between : 
Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain, 
Long I to-night for your presence again. 
Come from the silence so long and so deep ; — ■ 
Rock me to sleep, mother — rock me to sleep ! 

Over my heart, in the days that are flown, 
No love like mother-love ever has shone ; 
No other worship abides and endures — 
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours: 
None like a mother can charm away pain 
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain. 
Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lips creep ;— 
Rock me to sleep, mother — rock me to sleep ! 

Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold, 
Fall on your shoulders again as of old ; 
Let it drop over my forehead to-night. 
Shading my faint eyes away from the light ; 
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more 
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore; 
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep: — 
Rock me to sleep, mother — rock me to sleep ! 



434 



THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT. 



Mother, dear mother, the years have been long 
Since I last listened your lullaby song : 
Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem 
Womanhood's years have been only a dream. 
Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace, 
With your light lashes just sweeping my face. 
Never hereafter to wake or to weep ; — 
Rock me to sleep, mother — rock me to sleep ! 
Elizabeth A. Allen. 



How happy he, 

The saint to be 
Of the girls and all the boys ! 

He hears his praise 

Through the holidays. 
As they eat their sweets, and break their toys. 

So still he smiles, 
And the time beguiles 




A GLINT of blue in the winter sky, 
Soft airs unlocking the frozen stream, 

And stirring the sap in the elm-trees high ; 
A maiden stands in the sunny gleam, 

And plucks the snowdrops wild of the wood ; 

•Shy flowers, like the thoughts of maidenhood. 




T 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 

HE snow is white 

On the roofs to-night ; 
The moon looks down with her silvery smile ; 
And the wind blows free 
Through bush and tree, 
And whistles along for mile on mile. 



And ah ! hark there ! 

On the midnight air, 
Comes the faintest tinkle of fairy bells. 

They are coming near. 

They are coming here. 
And their sweet sound swelling of joy foretells. 

It is Santa Claus, 

And he cannot pause ; 
But down the chimney he quickly glides ; 

Each stocking fills. 

Till it almost spills, 
Then gayly chuckles, and off he glides. 



Concocting schemes our hearts to clieer ; 

He loves us all, 

And great and small 
Regret that he comes but once a year. 

William B. Dunham. 

FORGIVE ME NOW. 

WAIT not the morrow, but forgive me now ; 
Who knows what fate to-morrow's dawn 
may bring ? 
Let us not part with shadow on thy brow, 
With my heart hungering. 

Wait not the morrow, but entwine thy hand 
In mine, with sweet forgiveness full and free ; 

Of all life's joys I only understand 
This joy of loving thee. 

Perhaps some day I may redeem the wrong. 
Repair the fault — I know not when or how. 

Oh, dearest, do not wait — it may be long — 
Only forgive me now. 



THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT. 



435 



IN THE CAGE. 

DOST thou use me as fond children do 
Their birds, show me my freedom in a 
string, 
And, when thou'st played with me a while, then 

pull 
Me back again, to languish in my cage? 

Sir W. Davenant. 

NATIONAL HATRED. 

NO, Sir! no, Sir! We 
are above all this. Let 
the Highland clans- 
man, half naked, half civil- 
ized, half blinded by the peat- 
smoke of his cavern, have his 
hereditary enemy and his 
hereditary enmity, and keep 
the keen, deep and precious 
hatred, set on fire of hell, 
alive, if he can ; let the North 
American Indian have his, 
and hand it down from father 
to son, by Heaven knows 
what symbols of alligators, 
and rattlesnakes, and war- 
clubs smeared with vermilion 
and entwined with scarlet ; 
let such a country as Poland 
— cloven to the earth, the 
armed heel on the radiant 
forehead, her body dead, her 
soul incapable to die — let her 
remember the " wrongs of 
days long past ; " let the lost 
and wandering tribes of Israel 
remember theirs — the manli- 
ness and the sympathy of the 
world may allow or pardon 
this to them ; but shall Amer- 
ica, young, free, prosperous, 
just setting out on the high- 
way of Heaven, "decorating 
and cheering the elevated 
sphere she just begins to move 
in, glittering like the morning 
star, full of life and joy," 
shall she be supposed to be 
polluting and corroding her noble and happy 
heart, by moping over old stories of stamp act, 
and tea tax, and the firing of the " Leopard " upon 
the " Chesapeake " in a time of peace ? No, Sir I 
no. Sir! a thousand times no! 

Why, I protest I thought all that had been set- 
tled. I thought two wars had settled it all. What 
else was so much good blood shed for, on so 
many more than classical fields of Revolutionary 
glory ? For what was so much good blood more 
lately shed at Lundy's Lane, at Fort Erie, before 



and behind the lines at New Orleans, on the deck 
of the" Constitution," on the deck of the "Java," 
on the lakes, on the sea, but to settle exactly 
these "wrongs of past days?" And have we 
come back sulky and sullen from the very field of 
honor ? For my country I deny it. 

Mr. President, let me say that, in mv judgment, 
this notion of a national enmity of feeling towards 




Great Britain belongs to a past age of our history. 
My younger countrymen are unconscious of it. 
They disavow it. That generation in whose opin- 
ions and feelings the actions and the destiny of 
the next are unfolded, as the tree in the germ, do 
not at all comprehend your meaning, nor your 
fears, nor your regrets. We are born to happier 
feelings. We look to England as we look to 
France. We look to them, from our new world — 
not unrenowned, yet a new world still — and the 
blood mounts to our cheeks ; our eyes swim ; our 



436 



THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT. 



T 



voices are stifled with emulousness of so much | 
glory ; their trophies will not let us sleep : but 
there is no hatred at all; no hatred, — no barbarian 
memory of wrongs, for which brave men have made 
the last expiation to the brave. RuFUS Choate. 

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY 
CHURCHYARD. 

HE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea ; 
The ploughman homeward plods his weary 
way. 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight. 
And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight. 
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; 

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower 
The moping owl doth to the moon complain 

Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, 
Molcat her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-trade's shade, 
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering 
heap, 
Each in his narrow cell forever laid, 

I he rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, 

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn. 
No more shall rouse them from tlieir lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 
Or busy housewife ply her evening care; 

No children run to lisp their sire's return, 
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke. 

How jocund did they drive their team afield ! 
How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy 
stroke ! 

Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 

Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
And all that beauty, all that wealth e're gave, 

Await alike the inevitable hour ; — 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, 
If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 

Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted 
vault 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 



Can storied urn or animated bust 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? 
Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust. 

Or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; 

Hands that the rod of empire might have svvayed, 
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre ; 

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 
Rich with the spoils of tinip did ne'er unroll; 

Chill penury repressed their noble rage, 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene 

The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear ; 

Fall many a flower is born to blush unseen. 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast 
The little tyrant of his fields withstood ; 

Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest ; 
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. 

The applause of listening senates to command, 
The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 

And read their history in a nation's eyes, 

Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone 
Their growing virtues, but their crimes con- 
fined ; 

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame. 

Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride 
With incense kindled at the muse's flame. 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife 
Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; 

Along the cool, sequestered vale of life 
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect. 
Some frail memorial still erected nigh. 

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture 
decked. 
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered 
muse. 

The place of fame and elegy supply ; 
And many a holy text around she strews. 

That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey. 
This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned. 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day. 
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ? 



THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT. 



437 



On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 
Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; 

E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, 
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead, 
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ; 

If 'chance, by lonely contemplation led, 
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say ; 

" Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn, 
Brushing with hasty steps the dens away. 

To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 

" There at the foot of yonder nodding beech. 
That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so high, 

His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 
And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 
Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove ; 

Now drooping, woeful, wan, like one forlorn. 
Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. 

"One morn I missed him on the 'customed hill, 
Along the heath, and near his favorite tree ; 

Another came — nor yet beside the rill. 
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he ; 

"The next, with dirges due, in sad array. 
Slow through the church-way path we saw him 
borne ; 

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 

THE EPITAPH. 

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, 
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown ; 

Fair science frowned not on his humble birth. 
And melancholy marked him for her own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; 

Heaven did a recompense as largely send : 
He gave to misery all he had — a tear ; 

He gained from heaven ('twas all he wished) a 
friend. 

No further seek his merits to disclose. 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode : 

(There they alike in trembling hope repose,) 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 

Thomas Gray. 



THE FOOLISH VIOLET. 



i 



'I 



WAS so lonely," a violet said. 

As she nestled close to an eagle's 
breast, 

"So tired, too, of the dusk and the dew, 
God sent you, I think, to give me rest. 
Bear me away to the gates of day. 

To heights that forever are glad and green, 



And soft on your breast as a bird in its nest, 
Let me learn what living and loving mean." 

The wind crept cold by the eyrie's edge 

That night, in his cavern beside the sea. 
The bird slept well, but the pride of the dell. 

Forgotten and faded, cried, " Ah! me! 
For the sweet, sweet dream by the shadowing 
stream, 

For the lonely life that I used to hate — 
For the dusk and the dew so tender and true ! " 

But the wind made answer, ' ' Too late ! too 
late ! " 

To-day in the calm of his cold content, 

High on the cliffs the bold bird sits. 
And never a thought of the harm he wrought 

Through the sunny space of his memory flits ; 
But the wind in glee creeps up from the sea, 

And, finding the violet doomed and dead, 
Wafts it away from the gates of day. 

And buries it down where the dusks are shed. 

NEW EVERY MORNING. 

EVERY day is a fresh beginning. 
Every morn is a world made new ; 
You who are weary of sorrow and sinning. 
Here is a beautiful hope for you ; 
A hope for me and a hope for you. 

All the past things are past and over, 

The tasks are done and the tears are shed ; 

Yesterday's errors let yesterday cover; 

Yesterday's wounds which smarted and bled. 
Are healed with the healing which night has shed. 

Yesterday now is a part of forever. 

Bound up in a sheaf which God holds tight, 
With glad days and sad days and bad days which 
never 
Shall visit us more with their bloom and their 

blight. 
Their fulness of sunshine or sorrowful night. 

Let them go since we cannot relieve them. 

Cannot undo and cannot atone ; 
God in his mercy receive, forgive them. 

Only the new days are our own ; 

To-day is ours and to-day alone. 

Here are the skies all burnished brightly, 
Here is the spent earth all reborn, 

Here are the tired limbs springing lightly 
To face the sun and to share with the morn 
In the chrism of dew and the cool of dawn. 

Every day is a fresh beginning ; 

Listen, my soul, to the glad refrain. 

And spite of old sorrow and older sinning, 
And puzzles forecasted and possible pain. 
Take heart with the day, and begin again. 

Susan Coolidge. 



438 



THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT. 



THE MEN OF OLD. 

I KNOW not that the men of old 
Were better than men now, 
Of heart more kind, of hand more bold. 
Of more ingenious brow : 
I heed not those who pine for force 

A ghost of time to raise. 
As if they thus could check the course 
Of these appointed days. 

Still is it true, and over-true. 

That I delight to close 
This book of life self-wise and new, 

And let my thoughts repose 
On all that humble happiness 

The world has since foregone — 
The daylight of contented ness 

That on those faces shone ! 

With rights, though not too closely scanned, 

ICnjoyed, as far as known — 
With will, by no reverse unmanned — 

With pulse of even tone — 
They from to-day and from to-night 

Expected nothing more, 
Than yesterday and yesternight 

Had proffered them before. 

A man's best things are nearest him, 

Lie close about his feet. 
It is the distant and the dim 

Tiiat we are sick to greet : 
For flowers that grow our hands beneath 

We struggle and a.si)ire — 
Our hearts must die except they breathe 

The air of fresh desire. 

R. MONCTON MlLNES. 

SUGGESTIONS. 

URELY 'tis worth more than ducats 
That one can go through the mart. 
And the crowd never guess, from one's visage, 
The secrets that hide in the heart. 
Whether of joy or of sorrow ; 

Whether of pleasure or pain ; 
Or whether the smile cloaks a teardrop ; 
Or the thoughts be of losses or gain. 

For one can look out on the follies 

Of fashion, and those in its thrall. 
And laugh in one's sleeve at the medley, 

But keep a straight face over all. 
'Tis best not to rail at distortions. 

Or waste one's wise logic on fools; 
And useless to grow misanthropic; 

Or think to guide others by rules. 

As long as the earth keeps its orbit 
Sweet sunshine will gladden the sight ; 

So why, like a mole in the darkness. 

Should one burrow away from the light? 



s 



Prepare to have mixed with your potion 

I'he bitter as well as the sweet ; 
But " wear not your heart on your sleeve," friend, 

Let your face tell no tales on the street. 

Anna C. Starbuck. 

SONG OF THE MYSTIC. 

I WALK down the valley of silence, 
Down the dim, voiceless valley alone 
And I hear not the fall of a footstep 
Around me save God's and my own. 
And the hush of my heart is as holy 
As hovers where angels have flown ! 

Long ago was I weary of voices, 

Whose music my heart could not win; 

Long ago I was weary of noises 

That fretted my soul with their din; 

Long ago was I weary of places 

Where I met but the human — and sin. 

I walked in the world with the worldly; 

I craved what the world never gave ; 
And I said : "In the world each ideal 

That shines like a star on life's wave, 
Is wrecked on the shores of the real. 

And sleeps like a dream in a grave." 

And still did I pine for the perfect. 

And still found the false with the true; 

I sought 'mid the human for heaven. 
But caught a mere glimpse of its blue; 

And I wept when the clouds of the mortal 
Veiled even that glimpse from my view. 

And I toiled on, heart-tired of the human; 

And 1 moaned 'mid the mazes of men ; 
Till I knelt long ago at an altar, 

And heard a voice call me — since then 
I walk down the valley of silence 

That lies far beyond mortal ken. 

Do you ask what I found in the valley? 

'Tis my trysting place with the Divine, 
And I fell at the feet of the Holy, 

And above me a voice said : "Be mine." 
And there arose from the depth of my spirit 

An echo — " My heart shall be thine." 

Do you ask how I live in the valley ? 

I weep, and I dream, and I pray. 
But my tears are as sweet as the dewdrops 

That fall on the roses in May ; 
And my prayer, like a perfume from censers, 

Ascendeth to God night and day. 

In the hush of the valley of silence 
I dream all the songs that I sing : 

And the music floats down the dim valley, 
'Till each finds a word for a wing, 

That to hearts, like the dove of the deluge, 
A message of peace they may bring. 



THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT. 



439 



But far on the deep there are billows 
That never shall break on the beach; 

And I have heard songs in the silence 
That never shall float into speech ; 

And I have had dreams in the valley 
Too lofty for language to reach. 

And I have seen thoughts in the valley — 
Ah me ! how my spirit was stirred ! 

And they wear holy veils on their faces ; 
Their footsteps can scarcely be heard. 

They pass through the valley, like virgins, 
Too pure for the touch of a word. 

Do you ask me the place of the valley? 

Ye hearts that are harrowed by care ! 
It lieth afar between mountains, 

And God and his angels are there ; 
And one is the dark mount of sorrow, 

And one — the bright mountain of prayer. 

Abram J. Ryan. 

THE SINGERS. 

GOD sent his singers upon earth 
With songs of sadness and of mirth. 
That they might touch the hearts of men. 
And bring them back to heaven again. 

The first, a youth, with soul of fire, 
Held in his hand a golden lyre ; 
Through groves he wandered, and by streams, 
Playing the music of our dreams. 

The second, with a bearded face, 
Stood singing in the market-place, 
And stirred with accents deep and loud 
The hearts of all the listening crowd. 

A gray, old man, the third and last, 
Sang in cathedrals dim and vast. 
While the majestic organ rolled 
Contrition from its mouths of gold. 

And those who heard the singers three 
Disputed which the best might be ; 
For still their music seemed to start 
Discordant echoes in each heart. 

But the great Master said, ' ' I see 

No best in kind, but in degree; 

I gave a various gift to each. 

To charm, to strengthen, and to teach. 

"These are the three great chords of might, 
And he whose ear is tuned aright 
Will hear no discord in the three. 
But the most perfect harmony." 

H. W. Longfellow. 



SOUR GRAPES. 

A FOX was trotting on one day, 
And just above his head 
He spied a vine of luscious grapes. 

Rich, ripe, and purple-red; 
Eager he tried to snatch the fruit, 

But, ah ! it was too high ! 
Poor Reynard had to give it up. 

And, heaving a deep sigh. 
He curled his nose and said, " Dear me ! 

I would not waste an hour 
Upon such mean and common fruit — 

I'm sure those grapes are sour !" 
'Tis thus we often wish through life. 

When seeking wealth and power ; 
And when we fail, say, like the fox. 

We're "sure the grapes are sour!" 

BE IN EARNEST. 

NEVER be ashamed to say, " I do not know." 
Men will then believe you when you say, 
"I do know." 

Never be ashamed to say, " I can't afford it ;" 
" I can't afford to waste time in the idleness to 
which you invite me," or "I can't afford the 
money you ask me to spend." Never affect to be 
other than you are — either wiser or richer. 

Learn to say " No " with decision ; " Yes " with 
caution. " No " with decision whenever it resists 
temptation; "Yes" with caution whenever it im- 
plies a promise ; for a promise once given is a bond 
inviolable. 

A man is already of consequence in the world 
when it is known that we can implicitly rely upon 
him. Often have I known a man to be preferred 
in stations of honor and profit because he had this 
reputation : when he said he knew a thing, he 
knew it ; and when he said he would do a thing, 
he did it. E. Bulwer Lytton. 



T 



A USEFUL HINT. 

ENDER-HANDED stroke a nettle. 
And it stings you for your pains; 
Grasp it like a man of mettle, 
And it soft as silk remains. 

'Tis the same with common natures, 

Use them kindly they rebel ; 
But be rough as nutmeg graters, 
And the rogues obey you well. 

A. Hill. 
CONTENTMENT. 

THERE is a jewel which no Indian mines can 
buy. 
No chemic art can counterfeit ; 
It makes men rich in greatest poverty, 
Makes water wine, turns wooden cups to gold. 
The homely whistle to sweet music's strain ; 
Seldom it comes, to few from heaven sent, 
That much in little — all in naught — contentment. 



440 



THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT. 



THE NEW MORNING. 

LIFE ! we've been long together, 
Through pleasant and through cloudy 
weather ; 
'Tis hard to part when friends are dear, 
Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear; 
Then steal away, give little warning, 

Choose thine own time, 
Say not "Good night," but in some brighter 
clime 
Bid me "Good-morning." 

Anna L. Barbauld. 




OLD LETTERS. 

DO you like letter-reading? If you do, 
I have some twenty dozen very pretty 
ones : 
Gay, sober, rapturous, solemn, very true, 

And very lying stupid ones and witty ones; 
On gilt-edged paper, blue perhaps, or pink. 
And frequently in fancy-colored ink. 

EsPEs Sargent. 

THE OLD MAN WITH IRON SHOES. 

WE are told by men of science that all the 
ventures of mariners on the sea, all that 
counter-marching of tribes and races 
that confounds old history with its dust and rumor, 
sprung from nothing more abstruse than the laws 
of supply and demand, and a certain natural in- 
stinct for cheap rations. To any one thinking 
deeply, this will seem a dull and pitiful explana- 



tion. The tribes that came swarming out of the 
North and East, if they were indeed pressed 
onward from behind by others, were drawn at the 
same time by the magnetic influence of the 
South and West. The fame of other lands had 
reached them; the name of the eternal city rang in 
their ears; they were not colonists, but pilgrims; 
they traveled toward wine and gold and sunshine, 
but their hearts were set on something higher. 

That divine unrest, that old stinging trouble of 
humanity that makes all high achievements and all 
miserable failure, the same that spread wings with 
Icarus, the same that sent 
Columbus into the desolate 
Atlantic, inspired and sup- 
ported these barbarians on 
their perilous march. There 
is one legend which pro- 
foundly represents their spirit, 
of how a flying party of these 
wanderers encountered a very 
old man shod with iron. The 
old man asked them whither 
they were going ; and they 
answered, with one \ oice : 
"To the Eternal City?" He 
looked upon them gravely. "I 
have sought it," he said, "over 
the most part of the world. 
Three such pairs as I now c arry 
on my feet have I worn out 
upon this pilgrimage, and now 
the fourth is growing slender 
underneath my ste])s. And all 
this while I have nt t found 
the city." And he turned and 
went his own way alone, leav- 
ing them astonished. 

Robert Louis Stevenson. 

THE OLD YEAR. 

BLESS the old year ! He's almost gone ; 
I heard him utter a dismal moan ; 
"I'm weary — I'm lonely — I'm wasting," 
said he ; 
" Will no one breathe a blessing on me ? " 

"Thou poor old man, with the snow white hair, 
I'll bless thee," said a lady fair; 
" For thou in thy youth didst bring to me 
My beautiful babe in its purity ! " 

" Bless the old year ! " the young man cried ; 
" In merry spring he brought me my bride — 
The richest gift to mortal given — 
Brought her from the gate of heaven ! " 

" Bless the old year ! " the sick one said, 
And gently raised his drooping head ; 
" Its hours are past, and I shall be 
From ])ain, from grief, from anguish free ! " 



THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT. 



441 



The mourner breathed in tones of sadness, 
"Bless it, tho' it brought no gladness; 
I learned on earth no home to make ; 
Bless it for its lesson's sake!" 

" Bless the old year ! " cried the child with glee; 
"In its merry hours I was happy and free; 
It has brought me frolic for every day ; 
Bless the old year ere it passes away ! ' ' 

Bless the old year ! Come one and all ; 
Answer to his lonely call ; 
Let it so be the last sound he shall hear 
Shall echo a blessing ! Bless the old year ! 

Lilian F. Mentor. 






YOU THINK I AM DEAD. 

'OU think I am dead,' 

The apple tree said, 
' Because I have never a leaf to show, 

Because I stoop 

And my branches droop, 
And the dull gray mosses over me grow ! 
But I'm alive in trunk and shoot ; 

The buds of next May 

I fold away, 
But I pity the withered grass at my root.' 

" ' You think I am dead,' 

The quick grass said, 
' Because I have parted with stem and blade ! 

But under the ground 

I am safe and sound, 
With the snow's thick blanket over me laid. 
I'm all alive and ready to shoot. 

Should the spring of the year 

Come dancing here ; 
But I pity the flower without branch or root.' 

" ' You think I am dead,' 

A soft voice said, 
' Because not a branch or root I own ! 

I have never died. 

But close I hide 
In a plumy seed that the wind has sown, 
Patient I wait through the long winter hours ; 

You will see me again — 

I shall laugh at you then, 
Out of the eyes of a hundred flowers.' " 

I THANK THEE, GOD! FOR WEAL AND 
WOE. 

I THANK thee, God ! for all I've known 
Of kindly fortune, health and joy ; 
And quite as gratefully I own 
The bitter drops of life's alloy. 

Oh ! there was wisdom in the blow 
That wrung the sad and scalding tear 

That laid my dearest idol low. 

And left my bosom lone and drear. 



I thank thee, God ! for all of smart 
That thou hast sent, for not in vain 

Has been the heavy, aching heart, 
The sigh of grief, the throb of pain. 

What if my cheek had ever kept 

Its healthful color, glad and bright ? 

What if my eyes had never wept 

Throughout a long and sleepless night? 

Then, then, perchance, my soul had not 
Remembered there were paths less fair. 

And, selfish in my own blest lot, 

Ne'er strove to soothe another's care. 

But when the weight of sorrow found 
My spirit prostrate and resigned. 

The anguish of the bleeding wound 
Taught me to feel for all mankind. 

Even as from the wounded tree 

The goodly, precious balm will pour. 

So in the rived heart there'll be 
Mercy that never flowed before. 

'Tis well to learn that sunny hours 

May quickly change to mournful shade ; 

'Tis vk^ell to prize life's scattered flowers. 
Yet be prepared to see them fade. 

I thank thee, God ! for weal and woe ; 

And, whatsoe'er the trial be, 
'Twill serve to wean me from below. 

And bring my spirit nigher thee. 

Eliza Cook. 

CROSSING THE BAR. 

The following was the last poem of the celebrated author. 
It was sung at his funeral. 



s 



UNSET and evening star, 
And one clear call for me ; 
And may there be no moaning of the bar 
When I put out to sea. 



But such a tide as moving seems asleep. 

Too full for sound and foam. 
When that which drew from out the boundless 
deep 

Turns again home. 

Twilight and evening bell, 

And after that the dark ; 
And may there be no sadness of farewell 

When I embark; 

For, though from out our bourne of time and 
place, 
The flood may bear me far, 
I hope to see my Pilot face to face 
When I have crossed the bar. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



442 



THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT. 



THE FRIENDSHIP FLOWER. 



w 



HEN first the friendship flower is planted 
Within the garden of your soul, 
Little of care or thought are wanted 
To guard its beauty fresh and whole ; 
But when the one empassioned age 

Has full revealed the magic bloom, 
A wise and holy tutelage 

Alone can shun the open tomb. 

It is not absence you should dread — 

For absence is the very air 
In which, if sound at root, the head 

Shall wave most wonderful and fair ; 
With sympathies of joy and sorrow 

Fed, as with morn and even dews, 
Ideal coloring it may borrow 

Richer than ever earthly hues. 

But oft the ])lant, whose leaves unsere 

Refresh the desert, hardly brooks 
The common-peopled atmosphere 

Of daily thoughts, and words, and looks; 
It trembles at the brushing wings 

Of many a careless fashion-fly, 
And strange suspicions aim their stings 

To taint it as they wanton by. 

Rare is the heart to bear a flower, 

That must not wholly fall and fade. 
Where alien feelings, hour by hour, 

Spring up, beset, and ovenshade; 
Better, a child of care and toil, 

To glorify some needy S])Ot, 
Than in a glad redundant soil 

To pine neglected and forgot. 

Yet when, at last, by human slight, 

Or close of their permitted day. 
From the sweet world of life and light 

Such fine creations lapse away — 
Bury the relics that retain 

Sick odors of departed pride — 
Hoard as ye will your memory's gain. 

But let them perish where they died. 

Richard M. Milnes. 

THE PERFECT WOMAN. 

THE perfect woman is as beautiful as she is 
strong, as tender as she is sensible. She is 
calm, deliberate, dignified, leisurely. She 
is gay, graceful, sprightly, sympathetic. 
She is severe upon occasion and upon occasion 
playful. She has fancies, dreams, romances, ideas. 
She organizes neatness, and order, and comfort, 
but they are merely the foundation whereon rises 
the temple of her home, beautiful for situation, the 
joy of the whole earth. 

Gail Hamilton. 



"E' 



EASY ALL I 

' ASY all !" rings out the order, 

And the muscles cease to strain, 
And the swing of oars in rowlocks 
Stops the rhythmical refrain. 
And the sinking heart beats freely. 
And the spent breath comes again. 

"Easy all !" O, joyous mandate 
To the strugglers on life's flood, 

Be it but a passing respite. 

For the brain, and strength, and blood. 

Though far distant be the guerdon; 
Fame, or wealth, or livelihood ! 

When the summer sunshine brightens 

Grimy street and sullen wall, 
From the strips of azure heaven 
Seems to come the kindly call ; 
" Rest a while, ye weary toilers. 
Drop your oars, and easy all !" 

EXPERIENCE. 

A CHILD laid in the grave ere it had known 
Earth held delight beyond its mother's 
kiss; 
A fair girl passing from a world like this 
Unto God's vast eternity alone ; 
A brave man's soul in one brief instant thrown 
To deepest agony from highest bliss ; 
A woman steeling her young heart to miss 
All joy in life, one dear one having flown ; 
These have I seen ; yet happier these, I said. 
Than one who, by experience made strong. 
Learning to live without the precious dead. 

Survive despair, outlive remorse and wrong, 
Can say when new grief comes, with unbowed 
head, 
" Let me not mourn ! I shall forget ere long !" 

Alice Marland Rollins. 



worth 
Full many 



MIRANDA. 

ADMIRED Miranda! 
Indeed the top of admiration 
What's dearest to the world ! 
a lady 

I have eyed with best regard ; and many a time 
The harmony of their tongues hath into bond 

age 
Brought my too diligent ear; for several virtues 
Have I liked several women ; never any 
With so full soul but some defect in her 
Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owned 
And put it to the foil. But you, O you. 
So perfect, and so peerless, are created 
Of every creature's best. 

William Shakespeare. 



TRAGEDY AND SORROW: 

COMPRISING 

PATHETIC SELECTIONS FROM THE MOST DISTINGUISHED AUTHORS. 

THE DRIVER OF THE MAIL. 

AKE me the signal, dear," she cried, 

The little wife of the engineer, 
" As you drive the mail to the North to-night, 

Three low whistles, sharp and clear." 
" Nay, never fear, sweet wife!" he said, 

Kissing away her tears that fell, 
" You'll hear the sign, as we sweep the line, 

Three low whistles that 'All is well!'" 

She sat her down at her window bright, 
Waiting, and watching the darkening sky, 
She saw the gleam of the junction light. 
And heard the roar as the trains went by. 
" God watch over him!" soft she prayed, 
Down by her baby's bed she fell ; 
But there came no sign from the ringing line, 
Never a note to say " All's well." 

Night wore on, but she could not sleep. 

Out she crept 'neath the morning sky; 
There he lies ! by his engine wrecked ! 

Dead at his post, as a man should die. 
Was it for this she loved him so ? 

Was it for this her tears that fell ? 
Peace ! let him rest I God's will is best ! 

All is well ! All is well ! 

Frederic E. Weatherly. 

ROVER'S PETITION. 

LAST POEM OF THE AUTHOR. 




"K 



IND traveler, do not pass me by. 
And thus a poor old dog forsake ; 
But stop a moment on your way, 
And hear my woe, for pity's sake ! 

*• My name is Rover ; yonder house 

Was once my home for many a year; 
My master loved me ; every hand 
Caressed young Rover, far and near. 

" The children rode upon my back, 
And I could hear my praises sung ; 
With joy I licked their pretty feet, 
As round my shaggy sides they clung. 

*' I watched them while they played or slept ; 
I gave them all I had to give ; 
My strength was theirs from morn till night ; 
For only them I cared to live. 



" Now I am old, and blind, and lame, 
They've turned me out to die alone, 
Without a shelter for my head. 
Without a scrap of bread or bone. 

" This morning I can hardly crawl. 

While shivering in the snow and hail. 
My teeth are dropping one by one ; 
I scarce have strength to wag my tail ; 

" I'm palsied grown with mortal pains, 
My withered limbs are useless now ; 
My voice is almost gone, you see, 
And I can hardly make my bow. 

" Perhaps you'll lead me to a shed 

Where I may find some friendly straw 
On which to lay my aching limbs, 
And rest my helpless broken paw. 

443 



444 



TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



Stranger, excuse this story long, 
And pardon, pray, my last appeal ; 

You've owned a dog yourself, perhaps, 

And learned that dogs, like men, cun/eel." 

Yes, poor old Rover, come with me ; 

Food, with warm shelter, I'll supply — 
And heaven forgive the cruel souls 

Who drove you forth to starve and die ! 
James T. Fields. 

ADIEU TO HIS NATIVE LAND. 



"A 



DIEU, adieu ! my native shore 
Fades o'er the waters blue : 
The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, 
And shrieks the wild sea-mew. 
Yon sun that sets upon the sea 

We follow in his flight ; 
Farewell awhile to him and thee. 
My native land — good-night ! 

" A few short hours, and he will rise 

To give the morrow birth ; 
And I shall hail the main and skies, 

But not my mother earth. 
Deserted in my own good hall. 

Its hearth is desolate ; 
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall ; 

My dog howls at the gate 

" Come hither, hither, my little page ! 

Why dost thou weep and wail ? 
Or dost thou dread the billow's rage, 

Or tremble at the gale ? 
But dash the tear-drop from thine eye ; 

Our sliip is swift and strong : 
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly 

More merrily along." 

" Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, 

I fear not wave nor wind : 
Yet marvel not. Sir Childe, that I 

Am sorrowful in mind ; 
For I have from my father gone, 

A mother whom I love. 
And have no friend, save these alone, 

But thee — and One above. ' ' 

Lord Byron. 

THE THREE LITTLE CHAIRS. 

HEY sat alone by the bright wood fire. 
The gray-haired dame and the aged sire. 

Dreaming of days gone by ; 
The tear-drops fell on each wrinkled cheek, 
They both had thoughts that they could not 
speak, 
And each heart uttered a sigh. 

For their sad and tearful eyes descried 
Three little chairs placed side by side, 

Against the sitting-room wall ; 
Old fashioned enough as there they stood, 



T 



Their seats of flag and their frames of wood. 
With their backs so straight and tall. 

Then the sire shook his silvery head. 
And with trembling voice he gently said — 

" Mother, those empty chairs ! 
They bring us such sad, sad thoughts to-night, 
We'll put them forever out of sight, 

In the small dark room up-stairs." 

But she answered, '' Father, no, not yet. 
For I look at them and I forget 

That the children are away : 
The boys come back, and our Mary, too, 
W'ith her apron on, of checkered blue. 

And sit here every day. 

"Johnny still whittles a ship's tall masts. 
And Willie his leaden bullets casts, 

While Mary her patch-work sews; 
At evening time three childish prayers 
Go up to God from those little chairs, 

So softly that no one knows. 

"Johnny comes back from the billow deep, 
Willie wakes from his battle-field sleep. 

To say good-night to me ; 
Mary's a wife and a mother no more. 
But a tired child whose play-time is o'er, 

And comes to rest on my knee. 

" So let them stand there, though empty now, 
And every time when alone we bow. 

At the Father's throne to pray, 
We'll ask to meet the children above, 
In our Saviour's home of rest and love. 

Where no child goeth away." 

EARLY DEATH. 

SHE passed away, like morning dew. 
Before the sun was high ; 
So brief her time, she scarcely knew 
The meaning of a sigh. 

As round the rose its soft perfume. 
Sweet love around her floated ; 

Admired she grew — while mortal doom 
Crept on, unfeared, unnoted. 

Love was her guardian angel here. 
But love to death resign'd her; 

Though love was kind, why should we fear. 
But holy death is kinder ? 

Hartley Coleridge. 

KINDNESS. 

Speak gently, kindly, to the poor; 

Let no harsh term be heard ; 
They have enough they must endure 

Without an unkind word. 

David Bates. 



TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



446 



THINK OF ME. 

'AREWELL !— and never think of me 
In lighted hall or lady's bower ! 
Farewell ! — and never think of me 
In spring sunshine or summer hour ! 



But when you see a lonely grave, 
Just where a broken heart might be, 

With not one mourner by its sod, 
Then — and then only — think of me ! 

Letitia E. Landon. 




L 



o^W^\ 



T 



IT CANNOT BE. 

HE dying lips of a dear friend 

At parting spoke to me, 
Saying: " Wheresoe'er your path may trend 
There ever I shall be. 

"Go walk where over Egypt's sand 

The burning simoons blow, 
Or in Alaska's sunless land, 

Your wake my wings shall know. 



" When winter's nights are long and dark 

I'll lead you by the hand. 
And when the waves beat on your bark 

Will beacon you to land." 

He died. I watched his spirit go 
Across death's darkening sea: 

He came not back, and now I know 
Of things that cannot be. 

Cy Warman. 



44G 



TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



1 




D0W-'i3rM>-..i 



A 



WIDOW bird sat mourning for her love 

Upon a wintry bough ; 
The frozen wind crept on above, 

The freezing stream below. 



There was no leaf upon the forest bare, 
No flower upon the ground, 

And little motion in the air, 

Except the mill-wheel's sound. 

P. B. Shelley. 



THE AUCTIONEER'S GIFT. 



THE auctioneer leaped on a chair, and bold 
and loud and clear, 
He poured his cataract of words, just like 
an auctioneer. 
An auction sale of furniture, where some hard 

mortgagee 
Was bound to get his money back, and pay his 
lawyer's fee. 

A humorist of wide renown, this doughty auc- 
tioneer. 

His joking raised the loud guffaw, and brought the 
answering jeer, 



He scattered round his jests, like rain, on the un- 
just and the just ; 

Sam Sleeman said he " laffed so much he thought 
that he would bust." 

He knocked down bureaus, beds, and stoves, and 
clocks and chandeliers, 

And a grand piano, which he swore would last a 
thousand years ;" 

He rattled out the crockery, and sold the silver- 
ware ; 

At last they passed him up to sell a little baby's 
chair. 



TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



447 



"How much? how much? Come, make a bid; 

is all your money spent?" 
And then a cheap, facetious wag came up and bid, 

" One cent." 
Just then a sad-faced woman, who stood in silence 

there, 
Broke down and cried, "My baby's chair! My 

poor, dead baby's chair !" 

"Here, madam, take your baby's chair," said the 

softened auctioneer, 
" I know its value all too well, my baby died last 

year; 
And if the owner of the chair, our friend, the 

mortgagee. 
Objects to this proceeding, let him send the bill 

to me !" 

Gone was the tone of raillery; the humorist 
auctioneer 

Turned shamefaced from his audience, to brush 
away a tear ; 

The laughing crowd was awed and still, no tear- 
less eye was there 

When the weeping woman reached and took her 
little baby's chair. 

S. W. Foss. 

THE LOST LEADER. 

JUST for a handful of silver he left us ; 
Just for a riband to stick in his coat — 
Found the one gift of which Fortune bereft 
us. 
Lost all the others she lets us devote. 
They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, 

So much was theirs who so little allowed. 
How all our copper had gone for his service! 
Rags — were they purple, his heart had been 
proud ! 

We that had loved him so, followed him, honored 

him. 
Lived in his mild and magnificent eye. 
Learned his great language, caught his clear ac- 
cents. 
Made him our pattern to live and to die ! 
Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us. 

Burns, Shelley, were with us — they watch from 
their graves ! 
He alone breaks from the van and the freemen ; 
He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves ! 

We shall march prospering — not through his pres- 
ence; 
Songs may inspirit us — not from his lyre ; 
Deeds will be done — while he boasts his quies- 
cence. 
Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire. 
Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, 
One task more declined, one more footpath un- 
trod. 



One more tiiumph for devils, and sorrow for 
angels. 
One wrong more to man, one more insult to 
God! 

Life's night begins; let him never come back to 
us! 
There would be doubt, hesitation, and pain. 
Forced praise on our part — the glimmer of twi- 
light. 
Never glad, confident morning again ! 
Best fight on well, for we taught him — strike gal- 
lantly. 
Aim at our heart ere we pierce through his own ; 
Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait 
us. 
Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne! 
Robert Browning. 

THE THREE WEEPERS. 

SORROW weeps! 
And drowns its bitterness in tears; 
My child of sorrow. 
Weep out the fulness of thy passionate grief, 
And drown in tears 
The bitterness of lonely years. 
God gives the rain and sunshine mild. 
And both are best, my child ! 

Joy weeps ! 

And overflows its banks with tears ; 

My child of joy. 

Weep out the gladness of thy pent-up heart. 

And let thy glistening eyes 

Run over in their ecstasies ; 

Life needeth joy ; but from on high 

Descends what cannot die ! 

Love weeps ! 

And feeds its silent life with tears ; 

My child of love. 

Pour out the riches of thy yearning heart. 

And like the air of even, 

Give and take back the dew of heaven ; 

And let that longing heart of thine 

Feed upon love divine ! Horatius Bonar. 

WHERE SHALL WE MAKE HER 
GRAVE? 

WHERE shall we make her grave? 
Oh, where the wild flowers wave 
In the free air ! 
When shower and singing bird 
'Midst the young leaves are heard — 
There — lay her there ! 

Harsh was the world to her — 
Now may sleep minister 

Balm for each ill ; 
Low on sweet nature's breast 
Let the meek heart find rest 

Deep, deep and still ! 



448 



TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



Murmur, glad waters, by ! 
Faint gales, with happy sigh, 

Come wandering o'er 
That green and mossy bed 
Where, on a gentle head, 

Storms beat no more ! 



Oh, then, where wild-flowers wave, 
Make ye her mossy grave 

In the free air ! 
AVhere shower and singing-bird 
'Midst the young leaves are heard — 

There, lay her there ! 

Felicia D. Hemans. 



] i i i i »;;7 !!r??g ti)UJ-S t!? 




What though for her in vain 
Falls now the bright spring-rain, 

Plays the soft wind? 
Yet still, from where she lies. 
Should blessed breathings rise, 

Gracious and kind. 

Therefore let song and dew 
Thence in the heart renew 

Life's vernal glow ! 
And o'er that holy earth 
Scents of the violet's birth 

Still come and go ! 



UNDER THE SNOW. 

DEAR little hands, I loved them so ! 
And now they are lying under the snow ! 
Under the snow, so cold and white, 
I cannot see them, or touch them to-night. 
They are quiet and still at last, ah me! 
How busy and restless they used to be ! [snow — 
But now they can never reach up through the 
Dear little hands, I loved them so! 

Dear little hands, I miss them so ! 
All through the day, wherever I go — 
All through the night, how lonely it seems, 



TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



449 



For no little hands wake me out of my dreams. 
I miss them all through the weary hours ; 
I miss them as others miss sunshine and flowers; 
Day time, or night time, wherever I go, 
Dear little hands, I miss them so ! 

Dear little hands, they have gone from me now, 
Never again will they rest on my brow — 
Never again smooth my sorrowful face, 
Never again clasp me in childish embrace, 
And now my forehead grows wrinkled with care, 
Thinking of little hands once resting there, 
But I know in a ha[ipier, heavenlier clime, 
Dear little hands I will clasp you some time. 

Dear little hands, when the Master shall call 
I'll welcome the summons that comes to us all — 



When lying on my earthly bed 

In icy sleep, 
Who there by pure affection led 

Will come and weep ? 
By the pale moon implant the rose 

Upon my breast, 
And bid it cheer my dark repose, 

My lonely rest? 
Could I but know when I'm sleeping 

Low in the ground, 
One faithful heart would then be keeping 

Watch all round, 
As if some gem lay shrined beneath 

That cold sod's gloom, 
'Twould mitigate the pangs of death 

And light the tomb. 




When my feet touch the waters so dark and so 

cold, 
I'll catch my first gimpse of the city of gold 
If I keep my eyes fixed on the heavenly gate 
Over the tide where the white-robed ones wait, 
Shall I know you, I wonder, among the bright 

bands ? 
Will you beckon me over, oh ! dear little hands ? 

FOR ALL WHO DIE. 

The following poem was regarded by Edgar A. Poe as 
the most beautiful and touching of its kind in the language. 
Strange to say, the author is unknown. 

IT hath been said for all who die 
There is a tear. 
Some paining, bleeding heart to sigh 
O'er every bier ; 
But in that hour of pain and dread 

AVho will draw near 
Around my humble couch and shed 
A farewell tear ? 

Who'll watch the first departing ray 

In deep despair, 
And soothe the spirit on its way 

With holy prayer? 
What mourner round my couch will come 

In words of woe. 
And follow me to my long home, 

Solemn and slow? 
29 



Yet in that hour, if I could feel 

From the halls of glee 
And beauty's pressure one would steal 

In secrecy. 
And come and sit or stand by me 

In night's deep noon ; 
Oh ! I would ask of memory 

No other boon. 

But, ah ! a lonelier fate is mine, 

A deeper woe. 
From all I've loved in youth's sweet time 

I soon must go. 
Draw round me my pale robes of white 

In a dark spot, 
To sleep through death's long dreamless night 

Lone and forgot. 

ONE VOICE IS SILENT. 

ONE voice is silent, round the evening fire, 
One form comes not to cheer us with its 
gladness ; 
There brother, sister mingle — babe and sire, 
But tongues are mute and bosoms chilled with 
sadness ; 
Thought dwells on past communion unforgot; 
One voice is silent, and we hear it not ! 

One voice is silent ! at the place of prayer 

When morning breaks, or twilight gathers o'er, 



450 



TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



That sainted form no more is bending there, 

Those lips in holy accents breathe no more ; 
Death's hand hath thrown strange light upon the 

brow ; 
One voice is silent, and it pleads not now ! 

One voice is silent ! from the couch of pain, 
Which she hath pressed in summer-lime and 
spring, 

The words of counsel shall not come again — 
No anxious thought that gentle bosom wring; 

The shrouded eye hath parted with its tear; 

One voice is silent — one we loved to hear. 

One voice is silent ! ay, no more that tone, 

Fond sister, o'er our pleasant home is stealing; 

The mother's life is done, and we are lone ! 
But, oh, remember, in this pang of feeling, 

How dear the hope that God to us hath given. 

One voice is silent - but it wakes in heaven ! 

FAQIN'S LAST NIGHT ALIVE. 

Few passages from the pen of Dickens, the world's great- 
est fictionist, are more thrilUng than his description of the 
last night of I'agin, one of the prominent characters in 
"Oliver Twist." Fagin lived by tempting others, particu- 
larly boys and girls, to crime, and lived on the profits of their 
pilferings and bolder burglaries. At last the fearful conse- 
quences of his misdoings overtook him. lie fell into the 
clutches of the law, was tried, convicted, and sentenced to 
death. The scene as depicted by the novelist is one of the 
most startling ever written. 

THE court was paved, from floor to roof, with 
human faces. Inquisitive and eager eyes 
peered from every inch of space. From 
the rail before the dock, away into the sharpest 
angle of the smallest corner in the galleries, all 
looks were fixed upon one man — Fagin. Before 
him and behind ; above, below, on the right and 
on the left ; he seemed to stand surrounded by a 
firmament, all bright with gleaming eyes. 

He stood there, in all this glare of living light, 
with one hand resting on the wooden slab before 
him, the other held to his ear, and his head thrust 
forward to enable him to catch with greater dis- 
tinctness every word that fell from the presiding 
judge, who was delivering his charge to the jury. 
At times, he turned his eyes sharply upon them to 
observe the effect of the slightest feather-weight in 
his favor ; and when the points against him were 
stated with terrible distinctness, looked towards 
his counsel, in mute appeal that he would, even 
then, urge something in his behalf. Beyond these 
manifestations of anxiety, he stirred not hand 
or foot. He had scarcely moved since the trial 
began : and now that the judge ceased to speak, 
he still remained in the same strained attitude of 
close attention with his gaze bent on him, as though 
he listened still. 

A slight liustle in the court recalled him tohim- 
.self. Looking round, he saw that the jurymen 



had turned together, to consider their verdict. As 
his eyes wandered to the galler\', he could see the 
people rising above each other to see his face; 
some hastily a|)plying their glasses to their eyes; 
and others whispering to their neighbors with looks 
expressive of abhorrence A few there were who 
seemed unmindful of him, and looked only to the I 
jury, in impatient wonder how they could delay. 
But in no one face — not even among the women, 
of whom there were man\' there — could he read 
the faintest sympathy with himself, or any feeling I 
but one of all-absorbing interest that he should bej 
condemned. 

As he saw all this in one bewildered glance, the ] 
death-like stillness came again, and, looking back, 1 
he saw that the jur3men had turned towards the! 
judge. Hush ! They only sought permission to " 
retire. 

He looked, wistfully, into their faces, one by 
one, when they jjassed out, as though to see which 
way the greater number leant ; but that was fruit- J 
less. The jailer touched him on the shoulder. He! 
followed mechanically to the end of the dock, and! 
sat down on a chair. T he man i ointed it out, or] 
he would not have seen it. 

He looked up into the gallery again. Some of 
the people were eating, and some fanning them- 
selves with handkerchiefs, for the crowded jjlace 
was very hot. There was one young man sketch- 
ing his face in a little note-book. He wor.dered 
whether it was like him, and looked on when the 
artist broke his pencil-point, and made anothtr 
with his knife, as any idle spectator might have 
done. 

In the same way, when he turned his eye towards 
the judge, his mind began to busy itself with the 
fashion of his dress, and what it cost, and how he 
put it on. There was an old fat gentleman on the 
bench, too, who had gone out, some half an hour 
before, and now come back. He wondered with- 
in himself whether this man had been to get his 
dinner, what he had had, and where he liad it ; and 
pursued this train of careless thought until some 
new object caught his eye and roused another. 

Not that, all this time, his mind was, for an in- 
stant, free from one oppressive overwhtlniing sense 
of the grave that opened at his feet ; it was tver- 
]iresent to him, but in a vague and general way, 
and he could not fix his thoughts tipon it. Thus, 
even while he trembled, and turned burning hot 
at the idea of speedy death, he fell to counting 
the iron s))ikes before him, and wondering liow 
the head of one had been broken off, and whether 
they would mend it, or leave it as it was. 1 hen 
he thought of all the horrors of the gallows and 
the scafl"old — and stopped to watch a man sprink- 
ling the floor to cool it — and then went on to 
think again. 

At length there was a cry of silence, and a 
breathless look from all towards the door. Tb« 



I 



TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



451 



jury returned, and passed him close. He could 
glean nothing from their faces; they might as well 
have been of stone. Periect stillness ensued — not 
a rustle — not a breath — Guilty. 

The building rang with a tremendous shout, and 
another, and another, and then it echoed loud 
' groans, that gathered strength as they swelled out, 
, like angry thunder. It was a peal of joy from the 
! populace outside, greeting the news that he would 
: die on Monday. 

'. The noise subsided, and he was asked if he had 

anything to say why sentence of death should not 

be passed upon him. He had resumed his listen- 

I ing attitude, and looked intently at his questioner 

while the demand was made ; but it was twice 

repeated before he seemed to hear it, and then he 

■ only muttered that he was an old man — an old 

man — an old man — and so, dropping into a whis- 

; per, was silent again. 

f The judge assumed the black cap, and the pris- 
oner still stood with the same air and gesture. A 
'woman in the gallery uttered some exclamation, 
called forth by this dread solemnity; lie looked 
hastily up as if angry at the interruption, and bent 
forward yet more attentively. The address was 
'solemn and impressive; the sentence fearful to 
'hear. But he stood, like a marble figure, without 
the motion of a nerve. His haggard face was still 
'thrust forward, his under-jaw hanging down, and 
■his eyes staring out before him, when the jailer 
'put his hand upon his arm, and beckoned him 
away. He gazed stupidly about him for an in- 
stant, and obeyed. 

1 They led him through a paved room under the 
(court, where some prisoners were waiting till their 
'turns came, and others were talking to their 
friends, who crowded round a gate which looked 
into the open yard. There was nobody there to 
speak to him ; but, as he passed, the prisoners fell 
back to render him more visible to the people who 
were clinging to the bars ; and they assailed him 
with opprobrious names, and screeched and hissed. 
He sTiook his fist, and would have spat upon them ; 
but his conductors hurried him on, through a 
gloomy passage lighted by a few dim lamps, into 
the interior of the prison. 

Here he was searched, that he might not have 
ibout him the means of anticipating the law ; this 
ceremony performed, they led him to one of the 
condemned cells, and left him there — alone. 

He sat down on a stone bench opposite the door, 
ivhich served for seat and bedstead ; and casting 
•lis blood-shot eyes upon the ground, tried to col- 
lect his tho.ights. After a while he began to re- 
nember a few disjointed fragments of what the 
jUdge had said ; though it had seemed to him, at 
:he time, that he could not hear a word. These 
gradually fell into their proper places, and by de- 
crees suggested more ; so that, in a little time, he 



' had the whole, almost as it was delivered. To be 
hanged by the neck till he was dead — that was the 
end. To be hanged by the neck till he was dead. 

Charles Dickens. 




EEPINO 

' F thou \\ilt ease thy 
heart 
Of love, and all its. 
smart — 
Then sleep, dear, sleep ! 
And not a sorrow 

Hang any tear on your eyelashes; 

Lie still and deep, 
Sad soul, until the sea-wave washes 
The rim o'the sun to-morrow, 
In eastern sky. 

But wilt thou cure thine heart 
Of love, and all its smart — 

Then die, dear, die ! 
'Tis deeper, sweeter. 

Than on a rose-bank to lie dreaming 

With folded eye; 
And then alone, amid the beaming 
Of love's stars, thou' It meet her 
In eastern sky. 

Thomas L Beddoes. 

DIRGE IN CYMBELINE. 

SUNG RYGUIDERUS AND ARVIRAGUS OVER FIDELE, SUPPOSED 
TO HE DEAD. 



T 



O fair Fidele's grassy tomb 

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring 
Each opening sweet of earliest bloom. 
And rifle all the breathing spring. 

No wailing ghost shall dare appear 
To vex with shrieks this c|uiet grove; 

But shepherd lads assembled here, 
And melting virgins own their love. 

No withered witch shall here be seen — 
No goblins lead their nightly crew ; 

The female fays shall haunt the green, 
And dress thy grave with pearly dew. 



i 



452 



TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



The redbreast oft, at evening hours, 
Shall kindly lend his little aid, 

With hoary moss, and gathered flowers, 
To deck the ground where thou art laid. 

When howling winds and beating rain 
In tempests shake the sylvan cell, 



Or 'midst the chase, on every plain, 
The tender thought on thee shall dwell. 

Each lonely scene shall thee restore, 

For thee the tear be duly shed ; 
Beloved till life can charm no more, 

And mourned till pity's self be dead. 

William Collins. 




FOR many years my little bird 
Had shared my daily life with me; 
By kindly fortune still preserved. 
Both near and dear, two friends were we. 
In closest company. 

He hourly wooed my thoughts from care 
With sprightly glance, with happiest song ; 

And, swinging in his cage — ^just there — 
Tweet, tweet, would murmur all day long. 
With loving constancy. 

When I was glad, he fluttered round, 
Would nod and bob his yellow head 

To right, to left, first up, then down ; 
And flirt his beak, his wings outspread, 
Then sing uproariously. 

Were I aggrieved ? His little eyes 
Would meet mine almost pityingly ; 

They really seemed so wondrous wise, 
I felt he knew and yearned for me 
To show his sympathy. 

And as I sit here in my chair 
The pen drops idly, half forgot ; 



My eyes keep turning over there — 
My little bird's accustomed spot — 
To see — but vacanc)'. 

The room seems lonely-like to-day 

Without my feathered friend near by; 
The empty cage is hid away, 
The last song, ended in a sigh. 
Has hushed eternally. 

Amy S. Wolff. 

TRIFLE. 

A KISS he took and a backward look. 
And her heart grew suddenly lighter; 
A trifle, you say, to color a day. 
Yet the dull gray morn seemed brighter, 
For hearts are such that a tender touch 

May banish a look of sadness ; 
A small, bright thing can make us sing, 
But a frown will check our gladness. 

The cheeriest ray along our way 

Is the little act of kindness. 
And the keenest sting some careless thing 

That was done in a moment of blindness. 
We can bravely face life in a home where ( 
strife 

No foothold can discover. 
And be lovers still if we only will. 

Though youth's bright days are over. 

Ah, sharp as swords cut the unkind words 

That are far beyond recalling, 
When a face lies hid 'neath a coffin lid, 

And bitter tears are falling, 
We fain would give the lives we live 

To undo our idle scorning; 
Then let's not miss the smile and kiss 

When we part in the light of morning. 



TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



453 



THY LONG DAY'S WORK. 

NOW is done thy long day's work ; 
Fold thy palms across thy breast- 
Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest. 
Let them rave. 
Shadows of the silver birk 
Sweep the green that folds thy grave 
Let them rave. 



Crocodiles wept tears for thee; 

The woodbine and eglatere 

Drip sweeter dews than traitor's tear. 

Let them rave. 
Rain makes music in the tree 
O'er the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 

Round thee blow, self-pleached deep, 
Bramble roses, faint and pale. 
And long purples of the dale. 

Let them rave. 
These in every shower creep 
Through the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 

The gold-eyed kingcups fine. 
The frail blue bell peereth over 
Rare broid'ry of the purple clover. 
Let them rave. 

Kings have no such couch as 

thine, 
As the green that folds thy 
grave. 

Let them rave. 




Thee nor carketh care nor slander; 
Nothing but the small cold worm 
Fretteth thine enshrouded form. 

Let them rave. 
Light and shadow ever wander 
O'er the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 

Thou wilt not turn upon thy bed ; 
Chanteth not the brooding bee 
Sweeter tones than calumny? 

Let them rave. 
Thou wilt never raise thine head 
From the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



Wild words wander here and there ; 
God's great gilt of speech abused 
Makes thy memory confused — 

But let them rave. 
The balm-cricket carols clear 
In the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. Alfred Tennyson. 

THE DIRGE OF IMOGEN. 

FEAR no more the heat o' the sun, 
Nor the furious winter's rages; 
Thou thy world task hath done, 

Home art gone and ta'en thy wages: 
Golden lads and girls all must 
As chimney-sweepers come to dust. 



454 



TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



Fear no more the frown o' the great — 
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke; 

Care no more to clothe and eat; 
To thee the reed is as the oak. 

The sceptre, learning, physic, must 

All follow this, and come to dust. 

Fear no more the lightning-flash, 
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; 

Fear not slander, censure rash ; 
Thou hast finished joy and moan : 

All lovers young, all lovers must 

Consign to thee, and come to dust. 

No exerciser harm thee ! 
Nor no witchcraft charm thee ! 
Ghost unlaid forbear thee ! 
Nothing ill come near thee I 

Quiet consummation have ; 

And renowned be thy grave ! 

William Shakespeare. 

OH I SNATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTY'S 
BLOOM. 

OH ! snatched away in beauty's bloom, 
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb ; 
But on thy turf shall roses rear 
Their leaves, the earliest of tb.e year ; 
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom. 

And oft by yon blue gushing stream 
Shall sorrow lean her drooping head. 

And feed deep thought with many a dream, 
And lingering pause and lightly tread — 
Fond wretch ! as if her step disturbed the dead. 

Away ! we know that tears are vain, 

That death nor heeds nor hears distress : 

Will this unteach us to complain ? 
Or make one mourner weep the less? 

And thou who tell'st me to forget, 

Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. 

Lord Byron. 

LOST AND FOUND. 

SOME miners were sinking a shaft in Wales — 
(I know not where, — but the facts have 
filled 
A chink in my brain, while other tales 

Have been swept away, as, when pearls are spilled. 
One pearl rolls into a chink in the floor) ; 
Somewhere, then, where God's light is killed, 

And men tear in the dark at the earth's hearth- 
core. 
These men were at work, when their axes knocked 
A hole in the passage closed years before. 

A slip in the earth, I suppose, had blocked 
This gallery suddenly up with a heap 
Of rubble, as safe as a chest is locked, 



Till these men picked it ! and 'gan to creep 
In, on all fours. '1 hen a loud shout ran 
Round the black roof—" Here's a man asleep !" 

They all pushed forward, and scarce a span 
From the mouth of the passage, in sooth, the lamp 
Fell on the upturned face of a man. 

No taint of death, no decaying damp 
Had touched that fair young brow, whereon 
Courage had set its glorious stamp. 

Calm as a monarch upon his throne. 
Lips hard clenched, no shadow of fear. 
He sat there, taking his rest, alone. 

He must have been there for many a year; 
The spirit had fled, but there was its shrine, 
In clothes of a century old or near ! 

The dry and embalming air of the mine 
Had arrested the natural hand of decay. 
Nor faded the flesh, nor dimmed a line. 

Who was he then ? No man could say 
When the passage had suddenly fallen in — 
Its memory, even, had passed away ! 

In their great rough arms, begrimed with coal. 

They took him up, as a tender lass 

Will carry a babe, from that darksome hole, 

To the outer world of the short warm grass. 
Then up spoke one, " Let us send for Bess, 
She is seventy-nine, come Martinmas; 

" Older than any one here, I guess! 

Belike, she may mind when the wall fell there. 

And remember the chap by his comliness." 

So they brought old Bess, with her silver hair. 
To the side of the hill, where the dead man lay 
Ere the flesh had crumbled in outer air. 

And the crowd around them all gave way, 
As with tottering steps old Bess drew nigh. 
And bent o'er the face of the unchanged clay. 

Then suddenly rang a sharp low cry ! 
Bess sank on her knees, and wildly tossed 
Her withered arms in the summer sky. 

" O Willie ! Willie ! my lad ! my lost ! 
The Lord be praised ! after sixty years 
I see you again ! The tears you cost, 

"O Willie, darlin', were bitter tears! 
They never looked for ye underground, 
They told me a tale to mock my fears ! 

" They said ye were auver the sea — ye'd found 
A lass ye loved better nor me, to explain 
How ye'd a-vanished fra sight and sound ! 

"O darlin', a long, long life o' pain 

I ha' lived since then ! And now I'm old. 

Seems a'most as if youth were come back again. 



TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



455 



"Seeing ye there wi' your locks o' gold, 
And limbs as straight as ashen beams, 
I a' most forget how the years ha' rolled 

" Between us ! O Willie ! how strange it seems 
To see ye here as I've seen you oft, 
Auver and auver again in dreams ! " 

la broken words like these, with soft 
Low wail she rocked herself. And none 
Of the rough men around lier scoffed. 

For s irely a sight like this, the sun 
Had rarely looked upon. Face to face. 
The old dead love and the living one ! 

The dead, with its undimmed fleshly grace 

At the end of the three-score years ; the quick, 

Puckered, and withered, without a trace 

Of its warm girl beauty ! A wizard's trick 
Bringing the youth and the love that were, 
Back to the eyes of the old and sick ! 

These bodies were just of one age ; yet there 
Death, clad in youth, had been standing still, 
While life had been fretting itself threadbare ! 

But the moment was come (as a moment will 
To all who have loved, and have parted here, 
And have toiled alone up the thorny hill ; 

When, at the top, as their eyes see clear, 

Over the mists in the vale below. 

Mere specks their trials and toils appear. 

Beside the eternal rest they know) — 
Death came to old Bess that night, and gave 
The welcome summons that she should go. 
And now, though the rains and winds may rave, 
Nothing can jiart them. Deep and wide, 
The miners that evening dug one grave ! 

And there, while the summers and winters glide 
Old Bess and young Willie sleep side by side ! 

Ha.milton Hide. 

OVER THE RANGE. 

HALF-SLEEPING, by the fire I sit, 
I start and wake, it is so strange 
To find myself alone, and Tom 
.Vcross the Range. 

We brought him in with heavy feet 

And eased him down ; from eye to eye, 

Though no one spoke, there passed a fear 
That Tom must die. 

He rallied when the sun was low, 

And spoke ; I thought the words were strange ; 
" It's almost night, and I must go 
Across the Range." 



"What, Tom?" He smiled and nodded: 
"Yes, 
They've struck it rich there, Jim, you know. 
The parson told us ; you'll come soon : 
Now Tom must go." 

I brought his sweetheart's pictured face : 
Again that smile, so sad and strange. 




fe 



'.. *, 



Tell her," said he, " that Tom has gone 
Across the Range." 

The last night lingered on the hill. 
" There's a pass, somewhere," then he said. 
And lip, and eye, and hand were still ; 
And Tom was dead. 

Half-sleeping, by the fire I sit : 
I start and wake, it is so strange 

To find m\seir alone, and Tom 
Across the Range. 

J. Harrison Mills. 



456 



TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



SOLITUDE. 

IT is not that my lot is low 
That makes the silent tear to flow ; 
It is not grief that bids me moan ; 
It is that I am all alone. 

In woods and glens I love to roam, 
When the tired hedger hies him home; 
Or by the woodland pool to rest, 
When pale the star looks on its breast. 

Yet when the tilent evening sighs 
With hollowed airs and symphonies, 
My spirit takes another tone, 
And sighs that it is all alone. 

The autumn leaf is sere and dead — 
It floats upon the water's bed; 
I would not be a leaf, to die 
Without recording sorrow's sigh ! 

The woods and winds, with sullen wail. 
Tell all the same unvaried tale ; 
I've none to smile when I am free. 
And when I sigh to sigh with me. 

Yet in my dreams a form I view, 
That thinks on me, and loves me too ; 
I start, and when the vision's flown, 
I weep that I am all alone 

Henrv Kirke White. 

THE VOICELESS. 

WE count the broken lyres that rest 
Where the sweet wailing singers slumber, 
But o'er their silent sister's breast 
The wild tlowers who will stoop to number? 
A few can toucli the magic string, 

And noisy fame is proud to win them ; 
Alas for those that never sing. 

But die with all their music in them ! 

Nay, grieve not for the dead alone, 

Whose song has told their heart's sad story: 
Weep for the voiceless, who have known 

The cross without the crown of glory ! 
Not where Leucadian breezes sweep 

O'er Sapjaho's memory-haunted billow, 
But where the glistening night-dews weep 

On nameless sorrow's church-yard pillow. 

O hearts that break, and give no sign. 

Save whitening lip and fading tresses, 
Till Death pours out his cordial wine, 

Slow-dropped from misery's crushing presses ! 
If singing breath or echoing chord 

To everv hidden pang were given. 
What endless melodies were poured, 

As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven ! 

O. W. H<1LMES. 



A LAMENT. 

SWIFTER far than summer's flight. 
Swifter far than youth's delight. 
Swifter far than happy night. 
Art thou come and gone; 
As the earth when leaves are dead, 
As the night when sleep is sped, 
As the heart when joy is fled, 
I am left alone, alone. 

The swallow, summer, comes again ; 
The owlet, night, resumes her reign; 
But the wild swan, youth, is fain 

To fly with thee, false as thou. 
My heart each da)' desires the morrow j 
Sleep itself is turned to sorrow; 
Vainly would my winter borrow 

Sunny leaves from any bough. 

Lilies for a bridal bed, 
Roses for a matron's head, 
Violets for a maiden dead — 

Pansies let my flowers be ; 
On the living grave I bear. 
Scatter them without a tear, 
Let no friend, however dear, 

Waste one hope, one fear for me. 

P. B. Shelley. 

SONG OF THE SILENT LAND. 

FROM THE GERMAN. 

INTO the silent land ! 
Ah ! who shall lead us thither ! 
Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather. 
And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand : 
Who leads us with a gentle hand 
Tliither, oh, thither ! 
Into the silent land ? 

Into the silent land ! 
To you, ye boundless regions 
Of all perfection ! Tender morning-visions 
Of beauteous souls ! The future's pledge and band ! 
Who in life's battle firm doth stand 
Shall bear hope's tender blossoms 

Into the silent land ! 

O land ! O land ! 
For all the broken-hearted , 

The mildest herald by our fate allotted 
Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand 
To lead us witli a gentle hand 
Into the land of the great departed — 

Into the silent land ! 

H. ^V. LoN< -FELLOW. 

THE MOTHER'S DREAM. 

I'D a dream to-night 
As I fell asleep. 
Oh ! the touching sight 
Makes me still to weep: 



TRAGEDY AND SORROW, 



457 



Of my little lad, 
Gone to leave me sad. 
Aye, the child I had. 
But was not to keep. 

As in heaven high, 
I my child did seek. 
There, in train, came by 
Children fair and meek 
Each in lily white, 
With a lamp alight ; 
Each was clear to sight, 
But they did not speak. 

Then, a little sad. 
Came my child in turn, 
But the lamp he had, 
Oh ! it did not burn; 
He, to clear my doubt. 
Said, half turned about, 
" Your tears put it out ; 
Mother, never mourn !" 
William Barnes. 

DREAM=LAND. 

WHERE sunless rivers 
weep 
Their waves into the 
deep. 
She sleeps a charmed sleep : 

Awake her not. 
Led by a single star. 
She came from very far, 
To seek where shadows are 
Her pleasant lot. 

She left the rosy morn. 
She left the fields of corn, 
For twilight cold and lorn 

And water-springs. 
Through sleep, as through a 

veil. 
She sees the sky look pale. 
And hears the nightingale 

That sadly sings. 

Rest, rest, a perfect rest 
Shed over brow and breast ; 
Her face is toward the west. 

The purple land. 
She cannot see the grain 

Ripening on hill and plain ; 
She cannot feel the rain 
Upon her hand. 

Rest, rest, for evermore 
Upon a mossy shore ; 
Rest, rest at the heart's core 

Till time shall cease : 
Sleep that no pain shall wake. 



Night that no morn shall break, 
Till joy shall overtake 
Her perfect peace. 

Christina G. RosettI, 







r>^rj^^?_;Xg^ 



J; 



VMV». 



DEATH OF THE FIRST=BORN. 

This beautiful extract from "Artliur Jionnicastle," will be 
read with deep and tender interest by many whose experi- 
ence it truthfully portrays. 

I STAND in a darkened room before a little 
casket that holds the silent form of my first- 
born. My arm is around the wife and 
mother, who weeps over the lost treasure and 



458 



TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 



cannot, till tears have had their way, be com- 
forted. I had not thought that my child could 
die — that my child could die. I knew that other 
children had died, but I felt safe. We laid the 
little fellow close by liis grandfather at last ; we 
strew his grave with flowers, and then return to 




our saddened home with hearts united in sorrow 
as they had never been united in jov, and with 
sympathies forever opened toward all who are 
called to a kindred grief. 

I wonder where he is to-day, in what mature 
angelhood he stands, how he 'will look when I 
meet him, how he will make himself known to me, 
who have been his teacher ! He was like me : 
will his grandfather know him? I never can 
cease thinking of him as cared for and led by the 
same hand to which my own i outhful fingers 
clung, and as hearing from the fond lips ofiny 
own flither, the storv of his father's eventful life. 
I feel how wonderful to me has been the ministry 
of my children — how much more I have learned 
from them than they have ever Ic-arned from me — 
how by holding my own strong life in sweet sub- 



ordination to their helplessness, they have taught 
me patience, self-sacrifice, self-control, truthful- 
ness, faith, simplicity and purity. 

Ah ! this taking to one's arms a little group of 
souls, fresh from the hand of God, and living 
with them in loving companionship through all 
their stainless years, is, or 
ought to be, like living in 
heaven, for of such is the 
heavenly kingdom. To no 
one of these am I more in- 
dubted than to the boy who 
went away from us before 
the world had touched him 
with a stain. The key that 
shut him in the tomb was 
the only key that could un- 
lock my heart, and let in 
among its sympathies the 
world of sorrowing men and 
women who mourn because 
their little ones are not. 

'1 he little graves, alas! 
how many they are ! The 
mourners above them, how 
vast the multitude ! Brothers, 
sisters, I am one with you. 
I i)refs your hands, I weep 
with you, I trust with you, I 
belong to you. Those waxen, 
folded hands ; thatstill breast 
which I have so often pressed 
warm to my own; those 
slee])-bound eyes which have 
been so full of love and life; 
that sweet, unmoving, ala- 
baster face — ah ! we have all 
looked upon them, and they 
have made us one and made 
us better. There is no foun- 
tain which the angel of heal- 
ing troubles with his rtstless 
and life-giving wings so con- 
stantly as the fountain of tears and only those 
too lame and bruised to bathe, miss the blessed 
influence. 



J. G. Holland. 



HOPE. 



T 



HE wretcn condemned with life to part, 
Still, still on hope relies ; 
.■\nd ev'ry pang that rends the heart. 
Bids e-xpectation rise. 
Hope, like the glimm'ring ta]5er's light, 

Adorns and cheers the way ; 
And still, as darker grows the night. 
Emits a brighter ray. 

Oliver Gold.'^mith. 



THE GATES OF PEARL: 



OR 



SACRED POEMS AND SELECTIONS. 




FORGIVENESS. 

HEN on the fragrant sandal-tree 
The woodman's axe descends, 
And she who bloomed so beauteously 

Beneath the keen stroke bends, 
E'en on the edge that wrought her death 
D>ing she breathed her sweetest breath, 
As if to token, in her fall. 
Peace to her foes, and love to all. 



How hardly man this lesson learns. 

To smile, and bless the hand that spurns; 

To see the blow, to feel the pain, 

But render only love again ! 
This spirit not to earth is given — 
One had it, but He came from heaven. 
Reviled, rejected and betraved, 
No curse He breathed, no 'plaint He made, 
But when in death's deep pang He sighed, 
Prayed for His murderers, and died. 

BETHLEHEM TOWN. 



T 



HERE burns a star o'er Bethlehem town- 
See, O my eyes ! 
And gloriously it beameth down 
Upon a Virgin Mother meek 
And Him whom solemn Magi seek ; 
Burn on, O star ! and be the light 
To guide us all to Him this night. 



The angels walk in Bethlehem town — 

Hush, O my heart ! 
The angels come and bring a crown 
To Him, our Saviour and our King, 
And sweetly all this night tliey sing; 
Sing on in rapture, angel throng. 
That we may learn that heavenly song. 



Near Bethlehem town there blooms a tree — 

O heart, beat low ! 
And it shall stand on Calvary ; 
But from the shade thereof we turn 
Unto the star that still shall burn 
When Christ is dead and risen again, 
To mind us that He died for men. 



There is a cry in Bethlehem town — 

Hark, O my soul ! 
'Tis of the Babe that wears the crown; 
It telleth us that man is free — 
That He redeemeth all and me. 
The night is sped — behold the morn — 
Sing, O my soul, the Christ is born ! 

Eugene Field. 
THE LOST CHORD. 



SEATED one day at the organ, 
I was weary and ill at ease, 
And my fingers wandered idly 
Over the ivory keys ; 
I know not what I was playing. 

Or what I was dreaming then. 
But I struck one chord of music 
Like the sound of a great Amen. 



It flooded the crimson twilight 

Like the close of an angel's psalm, 
And it lay on my fevered spirit 

With a touch of infinite calm. 
It quieted pain and sorrow. 

Like love overcoming strife ; 
It seemed the harmonious echo 

From our discordant life. 

459 



460 



THE GATES OF PEARL. 



It linked all perplexed meanings 

Into one perfect peace, 
And trembled away into silence 

As if it were loth to cease. 
I have sought, but I seek it vainly, 

That one lost chord divine 
Which came from the soul of the organ 

And entered into mine. 

It may be that death's bright angel 
Will speak in that chord again j 

It may be that only in heaven 
I shall hear that grand Amen. 

Adelaide A. Proctor. 

"PLEASE TO SAY AMEN." 

IN the bonny Scottish Highlands 
At a manse I was a guest — 
All the land a flush of heather, 
Glowing sweet the summer weather, 
Filling me with balm and rest. 

Seven precious little children 
Made a heaven of the manse. 

With their coaxes, loves and kisses, 

Singing ecstasies and blisses. 
Ever circling in a dance. 

Jessie was my dove, my darling. 

Oh, she came from elfin land ! 

With her eyes of starry splendor, 

Rosy mouth so sweet and tender, 

Little queen of all the band. 

To the kirk upon the Sunday 

Jessie took me o'er the lea. 
Soon her golden head low bending, 
Soft she whispered, " Now descending 

Holy Spirit, come to me." 

Then she said, her eyes uplifted 
Bright with the momentous news, 

" My papa it is who preaches. 

And the gos/'ita/ he teaches 
To the people in the pews. 

"That big bookie is the Bible; 

It was written long ago. 
Now the bell has ceased its ringing, 
We'll have ])raying, we'll have singing. 

Like a little heaven below." 

So that lovely wee thing taught me. 
And of earthly thoughts beguiled; 

There I listened to the preaching, 

But the gospital, the teaching. 

Was from heaven through the child. 

At the quiet manse that evening 
Came an aged friend to stay ; 
All the bonny bairns before us. 
And the moonlieht flooding o'er us, 
Knelt he slowly down to pray. 



Jessie nestled close beside me. 

Tiny hands were folded tight. 
Baby face composed so quaintly, 
Clothed upon with whiteness saintly, 
By the mystic sweet moonlight. 

Long and solemn was the praying. 
Then there came a gentle touch. 

" I'll be quiet as a niousie. 

But oh, never in my housie 
Did my papa pray so much !" 

Soft she rose — I never hindering — 

Stepping light on tiptoe then 
Crept she close where he was praying, 
In his ear she whispered, saying, 
" Oh sir, please to say Amen .' ' 

" From the mouths of babes and sucklings 
Hast thou. Father, perfect praise." 

Rather say "Amen" when weary, 

Than to render homage dreary 
To the Author of our days. 

THE OLD MAN IN THE NEW CHURCH. 

THEY'VE left the old church, Nancy, and 
gone into a new; 
There's paintings on the windows, and 
cushions in each pew ; 
I looked up at the shepherd, then around upon the 

sheep, 
And thought what great inducements for the 
drowsy ones to sleep. 

Yes ! When I saw the cushions, and the flowers 

fine and gay. 
In all the sisters' bonnets, I couldn't help but 

say, 
" Must I be carried to the skies on flowery beds 

of ease 
While others fought to win the prize and sailed 

through bloody seas?" 

The preacher read the good old hymns sung in our 
youthful days — 

" Oh for a thousand tongues to sing my great Re- 
deemer's praise !" 

And, though a thousand tongues were there, they 
didn't catch the fire, 

And so the good old hymn was sung by a new- 
fangled choir. 

I doubt not but the people called the music very 

fine, 
But if they heard a word they said, they've better 

ears than mine ; 
For the new tune in the new church was a very 

twisting thing, 
And not much like the tunes of old that Christians 

used to sing. 



THE GATES OF PEARL. 



461 



Why, Nancy, in the good old times, the singing 

sounded more 
Like the noise of many waters as they beat upon 

the shore ; 



" The Lord's ear is not heavy.'' He can hear a 

sinner's cry 
" In a church that is not painted like a rainbow in 

the sky ; 




For everybody knew the tunes, and everybody 

sang, 
And the churches, though not quite so fine, with 

hallehijahs rang. 

Now I'm not an old fogy, but I sometimes want to 
scold, 

When I see our people leave good ways simply be- 
cause they're old ; 

I've served the Lord nigh forty years, and, till I'm 
'neath the sod, 

I shall always love the simple, good old ways of 
serving God. 



"The Lord's arm is not shortened." He will 
save a sinner, now. 

Though he may in lonely hovel, on a cold earth- 
altar bou-. 

But they've left the old church, Nancy, and gone 
into a new. 

And I fear they've gone in more for style than for 
the good and true ; 

And, from what little I heard said I fear that, sad- 
der yet, 

In beating other churches, they've got badly into 
debt. 



462 



THE GATES OF PEARL. 



We didn't think of lotteries and grab-bags, years 

ago, 
As means of raising money to make a better show ; 
When the church demanded dollars, we all, with 

one accord, 
Put our hands down in our pockets and gave them 

to the Lord. 

While I sat there at the meetin', looking 'round 

from pew to pew, 
I saw no familiar faces, for the faces all were new ; 
When the services were ended all the members 

passed me by ; 
None were there to greet the old man with gray 

hairs and failing eye. 

Then I knew that God had taken to the temple in 

the skies 
All the soldiers that with you and I fought hard to 

win the prize ; 
I some doubt if Christians now-a-days will reach 

the gates of gold 
Any better in the new ways than they did in the 

old. 

For the Lord looks not on tinsel ; His spirit will 
depart 

When the love of worldly grandeur takes posses- 
sion of the heart ; 

Oh ! I know the Lord of glory will pass through a 
hovel door, 

Sooner than through temple portals where are no 
seats for the poor. 

In a little while, dear Nancy, we will lay our 
armor down, 

And from the King Eternal we'll receive our 
starry crown ; 

Then we'll meet the blessed pilgrims that we wor- 
shipped with of old. 

And we'll worship there, together, in the city 
built of gold. 

John H. Yates. 

SOMETIME, SOMEWHERE. 

UNANSWERED yet ! The prayer your lips 
have pleaded 
In agony of heart, these many years? 
Does faith begin to fail, is hope departing, 

And think you all in vain those falling tears? 
Say not the Father hath not heard your prayer ; 
You shall have your desire, sometime, some- 
where. 

Unanswered yet? though when you first presented 
This one petition to the Father's throne. 

It seemed you could not wait the time of asking. 
So urgent was your heart to make it known. 

Though years have passed since then, do not de- 
spair ; 
The Lord will answer you sometime, somewhere. 



Unanswered yet ? Nay, do not say, ungranted ! 

Perhaps your part is not yet wholly done. 
The work began when first your prayer was uttered. 

And God will finish what He has begun. 
If you will keep the incense burning there. 

His glory you shall see, sometime, somewhere. 

Unanswered yet? Faith cannot be unanswered, 
Her feet are firmly planted on the Rock ; 

Amid the wildest storms she stands undaunted, 
Nor quails before the loudest thunder shock. 

She knows Omnipotence has heard her prayer. 
And cries, " It shall be done, sometime, some- 
where." Robert Browning. 

HEAVENWARD. 

SO many hills arising, green and gray. 
On earth's large round, and that one 
hill to say : 
' ' I was his bearing place I" On earth's wide 

breast 
So many maids ! And she — of all most blest — 
Heavily mounting Bethleliem, to be 
His mother! — Holy Maid of Galilee ! 
Hill with the olives and the little town ! 
If rivers from their crystal founts flow down, 
If 'twas the dawn which did day's gold unbar 
Ye were beginnings of the best we are, 
The most we see, the highest that we know, 
The lifting hea\enward of man's life below. 

Heaven aglow ! 

And the mild burden of its minstrelsy; 
Peace bL-ginning to be, 
Deep as the sleejj of the sea 
When the stars their faces glass 
In its blue trancjuillit) ; 
Hearts of men upon eardi 
From the first to the second birth 
To rest as the wild waters rest 
With the colors of heaven on their breast. 
S:r Edwin Arnold. 

A LITTLE DREAM. 

THESE years of life ! What do they seem? 
\ little dream 
Of pain and pleasure blent together; 
A time of sharply changing weathtr. 
When brilliant simbeams gleam and die 
On heavy storm-clouds sailing by — 

Where falling tears 
Are bright with hope and cold with fears. 
What shall the future progress be 

Of life with me? 
God knows. I roll on Him my care ; 
Night is not night if He be there. 
When daylight is no longer mine. 
And stars forbidden are to shine, 

I'll turn my eyes 
To where eternal days shall rise. 



THE GATES OF PEARL. 



46a 



THE WIDOW'S LIGHTHOUSE. 

IT is related that on a small, and rocky, and 
almost inaccessible island, is the residence of 
a poor widow. The passage of the place 
is exceedingly dangerous to vessels, and her cot- 
tage is called the " Lighthouse," from the fact that 
she uniformly keeps a lamp Ijurning in her little 
window at night. Early and late she may be seen 
trimming her lamp with oil, lest some misguided 
bark may perish through her neglect. For this 
she asks no reward. But her kindness stops not 
here. When any vessel 
is wrecked, she rests not 
till the chilled mariners 
come ashore to share 
her little board, and be 
warmed by her glowing 
fire. This poor woman 
in her younger, perhaps 
not happier days, though 
happy they must have 
been, for sorrow cannot 
lodge in such a heart, wit- 
nessed her husband strug- 
gling with the waves and 
swallowed up by the re- 
morseless billows, 

" In sight of home and 
friends who thronged 
to save." 

This directed her be- 
nevolence towards those 
who brave the dangers of 
the deep; this prompted 
her present devoted and 
solitary life, in which her only, her sufficient enjoy- 
ment is in doing good. Sweet anj blessed fruit of 
bereavement ! What beauty is here ! a liveliness 
I would little speak of, but more revere ! a flower 
crushed indeed, yet sending forth its fra^'rance to 
all around ! Truly, as the sun seems greatest in his 
lowest est ite, so did sorrow enlarge her heart and 
make her appear the more noble, the lower it 
brought her down. We cannot think she was un- 
happy, though there was a remembered grief in 
her heart. .\ grieved heart may be a richly stored 
one. Where charity abounds, misery cannot. 

" Such are the tender woes of love. 
Fostering the heart, they bend." 

Herman Hooker. 

A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 

IN the bleak midwinter 
Frosty wind made moan ; 
Earth stood hard as iron, 
Water like to stone ; 



Snow had fallen, snow on snow, 

Snow on snow. 
In the bleak midwinter 

Long ago. 

Our God, heaven cannot hold Him, 

Nor earth sustain ; 
Heaven and earth shall flee away 

When He comes to reign ; 




In the bleak midwinter 
A stable-place sufficed 

The Lord God Almighty — 
Jesus Christ. 

Enough of Him, whom cherubim 

Worship night and day ; 
A breastful of milk 

And a manger of hay 
Enousih for Him whom angels 

Fall down before, 
The o.x and ass and camel 
Which adore. 

Angeh and archangels 

May have gathered there. 
Cherubim and seraphim 

Thronged the air ; 
But only His mother 

In her maiden bliss 
Worshiped the beloved 
With a kiss. 



464 



THE GATES OF PEARL. 



What can I give Him, 

Poor as I am ? 
If I were a shepherd 

I would bring a lamb, 
If I were a wise man 

I would do my part — 
Yet what I can I give Him ? 
Give my heart. 

Christina G. Rossetti. 




RUTH. 

PEACE to the true man's ashes ! weep for those 
Whose days in old delusions have grown dim ; 
Such lives as his are triumphs, and their close 
An immortality : weep not for him. 

As feathers wafted from the eagle's wings 

Lie bright among the rocks they cannot warm, 

So lie the flowery lays that genius brings. 
In the cold turf that wraps his honored form. 

A practical rebuker of vain strife, 

Bolder in deeds than words, from beardless youth 
To the white hairs of age, he made his life 
A beautiful consecration to the truth. 

Alice Gary. 
IN ANSWER. 

ADAM, we miss the train at B- 



"M 



' But can't you make it, sir? 
gasi)ed. 
" Impossible ; it leaves at three. 

And we are due a quarter past." 
" Is there no way? O, tell me, then. 

Are you a Christian?" " I am not." 
"And are there none among the men 

Who run the train?" " No — I forgot — 
I think this fellow over here, 

Oiling the engine, claims to be." 
She threw upon the engineer 

A fair face, white with agony. 



she 



"Are you a Christian?" "Yes, I am." 

"Then, O sir, won't you pray with me, 
All the long way, that God will stay, 

That God will hold the train at B ?" 

" 'Twill do no good, it's due at three 

And" — "Yes, but God can hold the train; 
My dying child is calling me. 

And I must see her face again. 
O, won' t you pray? " "I will," a nod 

Emphatic, as he takes his place. 
When Christians grasp the arm of God 

They grasp the power that rules the rod. 

Out from the station swept the train. 

On time, swept on past wood and lea ; 
The engineer, with cheeks aflame. 

Prayed, '■ O Lord, hold the train at B ." 

Then flung the throttle wide, and like 

Some giant monster of the plain. 
With panting sides and mighty strides. 

Past hill and valley, swept the train. 

A half, a minute, two are gained ; 

Along those burnished lines of steel 
His glances leap, each nerve is strained. 

And still he prays with fervent zeal. 
Heart, hand, and brain, witli one accord. 

Work while his prayer ascends to heaven, 
" Just hold the train eight minutes. Lord, 

And I'll make up the other seven." 

With rush and roar through meadow lands. 

Past cottage homes and green hillsides. 
The panting thing obeys his hands. 

And speeds along with giant strides. 
They say an accident delayed 

The train a little while ; but He 
Who listened while His children prayed, 

In answer, held the train at B . 

Ro.sF. Hartwick Thorpe. 



s 



SOMETIME. 

OMETIME, dear heart, yes, sometime, 
The brighter days will come, 
And floods of golden sunlight 
Will flash across thy gloom. 



Sometime for thee will open 
The fairest flowers that be. 

And sometime in the future 
The birds will sing for thee. 

To all there comes a morning 
Who wait the end of night — 

For every hour of darkness 
There dawneth one of light. 

Then, oh, my heart, take courage. 
The east begins to glow- — 

'Tis always morning somewhere, 
'Twill come to thee I know. 



'J HE GATES OF PEARL. 



466 




I SAT at an open window, 
Alone in a city street, 
And thought of the far-off meadows. 
Where blossoms and grass were sweet; 
Till the murmur of lovers straying. 

At home on the daisied lea, 
And the songs of the children playing 
Came back in a dream to me. 

My soul was weary longing. 

The meaning of life was dim. 
But angels came in the twilight 

To sing me a vesper hymn ; 
There were voices floating, and thrilling 

My heart in its silent gloom, 
As they came through the casement, filling 

With music that dusky room. 

They sang of the sheep that wandered, 

Now safe in the blessed fold; 
Of new love sweeter and purer 

Than all that we dreamed of old ; 
Of the golden links that were shattered, 

Now joined in one glorious chain; 
Of the dear ones parted and scattered, 

All gathered and found again. 

Sweet sisters, singing at even 
To gladden a stranger's breast ! 

Their song was a song of heaven, 
A message of bliss and rest : 
30 



C 



Of saints from tlie shadous ascended 
They sang to the watcher here; 

And long ere their anthem was ended 
The meaning of life was clear. 

Sarah Duudnev. 

THE WELL OF LOCH MAREE. 

ALM on the breast of Loch Maree 
A little isle reposes ; 
A shadow woven of the oak 
And willow o'er it closes. 

Within, a Druid's mound is seen. 
Set round with stony warders; 

A fountain, gushing through the turf, 
Flows o'er its grassy-borders. 

And whoso bathes therein his brow. 
With care or madness burning, 

Feels once again his healthful thought 
And sense of peace returning. 

O I restless heart and fevered brain, 

LTnquiet and unstable, 
That holy well of Loch Maree 

Is more than idle fable ! 

Life's changes vex, its discords stun, 

Its glaring sunshine blindeth. 
And blest is he who on his way 
That fount of healing findeth ! 



466 



THE GATES OF PEARL. 



s 



The shadows of a humbled will 
And contrite heart are o'er it: 

Go read its legend — " Trust in God " — 
On Faith's while stones before it. 

J. G. Whiitier. 

THE CHRISTIAN'S WARFARE. 

OLDIER go— but not to claim 

Mouldering spoils of earth-l.o;n treasure; 
Not to build a vaunting name, 

Not to dwell in tents of pleasure. 
Dream not that the way is smooth, 

Hope not that the thorns are roses : 
Turn no wishful eye of youtii 

Where the sunny beam reposes : — 
Thou hast sterner work to do, 
Hosts to cut thy passage through: 
Close behind thee gulfs are burning — 
Forward ! there is no returning. 

Soldier rest — but not for thee 

Spreads the world her downy pillow ; 
On the rock thy couch must be, 

While around thee chafes the billow : 
Thine must be a watchful sleep. 

Wearier than another's waking; 
Such a charge as thou dost keep 

Brooks no moment of forsaking. 
Sleep as on the battle-field, 
Girded — grasping sword and shield. 
Those thou canst not name nor number 
Steal upon thy broken slumber. 

Soldier, rise ! — the war is done, 

Lo ! the hosts of hell are flying; 
'Twas thy Lord the battle won ; 

Jesus vanquished them by dying. 
Pass the stream — before thee lies 

All the conquered land of glory ; 
Hark what songs of ra]5ture rise, 
These proclaim the victor's story. 
Soldier, lay thy weapon down ; 
Quit the cross and take the crown : 
Triumph ! all thy foes are banished, 
Death is slain and earth has vanished. 

Ch.\rlqtte E. Tonna. 

THE MAGI'S GIFTS. 

TWO thousand years have rolled around 
Since, strangelv led, the Magi found 
The Babe of Bethlehem's retreat 
And bowed in worship at His feet ; 
Then sealed their worship, we are told. 
With mvrrh. and frankincense, and gold — 
A Gentile hand ihe first to bring 
An offering to the new-born King ! 

Whence came the gold, perhaps none knew, 
Nor whence the fragrant perfume grew ; 



But sure it is, no gold more fine 
Was ever dug from Ophir's mine ; 
Nor since has Orient sun and air 
Distilled a perfume half so rare. 
Save that which loving Mary poured 
Upon the head of Christ her Lord. 

The child-King's hands, too small to lift, 
They barely touch the Magi's gift, 
But lo ! what light illumes each gcni 
Touched by the Babe of Bethlehem ! 
Far down the years it sheds its ray, 
Dissolving darkness into day. 
O, Magi's gold! what alchemist 
E'er dreamed of such a change as this! 

Nor did the frankincense that shed 
Its perfume o'er the infant's bed, 
Its fragrance lose by night or day, 
But, as the ages passed away, 
Its hallowed sweetness filled the air 
That man might breathe it everywhere. 
Its scented breath diffuses wide 
And sweetens now our Christmastide. 

Dear Lord, we may not bring Thee much. 
Transmute it. Master, by Thy touch ; 
Purge out the dross of selfish thought. 
With which our gifts so oft are fraught, 
And though we cannot bring the gold 
Nor frankincense like them of old. 
Take Thou our lives and let them be, 
A living incense. Lord, for Thee. 

S. C. Kirk, 



B 



ANGEL GUARDIANS. 

RAVE hearts that wage a never-ending strife 

Against temptations manifold and large. 
Concerning ye, so saith the Book of Life, 
God gives His angels charge. 

Ye who proclaim the story sweet of old. 

To spread Christ's love, wide as the world is 
wide, 
In danger, weariness and want — behold 
The angels at your side. 

Ye sinners who have drained the bitter cup. 

But now, repentant, mourn and weep o'er sin, 
Despair not tuna.' look up — to Christ look uj) ! 
And let the angels in ! 

And ye who serve the Master here below 

In sweet humility and holy fear, 
Be strong to bear the burden of earth's woe, 
God's angels hover near ! 

What need ve dread, O servants of the King? 

Though dangers menace, imminent and large; 
O'er ye to bend upon protecting wing, 
" He gives His angeis charge." 

Beatrice Clayton. 



THE GATES OF PEARL. 



467 



WHAT WAS HIS CREED? 

HE left a load of anthracite 
In front of a poor widow's door 
When the deep snow, frozen and 
white 
Wrapped street and square, mountain and 
moor — 

That was his deed : 

He did it well ; 
" VVhat was his creed ? " 
I cannot tell. 

Blessed " in his basket and his store," 

In sitting down and rising up ; 
When more he got he gave the more. 
Withholding not the crust and cup; 
He took the lead 

In each good task ; 
" VVhat was his creed?" 
I did not ask. 



His charity was like the snow. 

Soft, white, and silken in its fall ; 
Not like the noisy winds that blow 

From shivering trees the leaves ; a pall 
For flower and weed, 

Dropping below ; 
" What was his creed ?" 
The poor may know. 

He had great faith in loaves of bread 

For hungry people, young and old ; 
And hope inspired, kind words he said, 
To those he sheltered from the cold. 
For he must feed 

As well as pray ; 
" What was his creed?" 
I cannot say. 

In words he did not put his trust, 

In taith his words he never writ ; 
He loved to share his cup and crust 
With all mankind who needed it ; 
In time of need 

A friend was he ; 
" What was his creed? " 
He told not me. 

He put his trust in Heaven, and 

Worked right well with hand and head ; 
And what he gave in charity 

Sweetened his sleep and daily bread. 
Let us take heed, 

For life is brief; 
"What was his creed?" 
" What was his belief?" 



QETTIN' RELiQION. 

I AIN'T much on religion, nor prayer-meeting 
beside. 
I've never jined the church as yet, nor ain't 
been sanctified ; 
But a tender sort of feeling draws me nearer to 

the skies. 
Since I got a peep of heaven through a pair of 
trusting eyes. 

Time was when nothing moved my thoughts above 

this sinful world ; 
No preacher's words could stir me up, in wrath 

an' fury hurled ; 
But lately I've been drifting nigher to the better land, 
And the force that leads me upward is a little 

dimpled hand. 

Seems like the bad thoughts sneak away, with that 

wee chap hard by ; 
And cuss words that were handy once won't come 

when he is nigh ; 
Fact is, it sort o' shames me to see those clear^ 

blue eyes 
Look at me (when I'm gettin riled) in pity an' 

surprise. 

I don't know much of heaven or angels an' such 

things; 
But somehow, when I picture 'em, it ain't with 

harps and wings; 
But with yeller curls all tangled, and tender eyes 

that shine. 
An' lips that's soft and loving, like that little 

chap of mine. 

Then, when he folds his dimpled hands, in his 
little bed at night. 

An* wliispers, " Now I lay me," why thar's some- 
thing ails my sight. 

An' my throat gits sort of husky when he blessea 
me, an' then 

I'm dead sure I've got religion by the time he 
says, ".Amen!" Ida G. Morris. 

HEAVEN OVERARCHES. 

LAST POEM OF THE GIFTED AUTHOR. 

HE.WEN overarches earth and sea. 
Earth-sadness and sea-bitterness. 
Heaven overarches you and me ; 
A little while and we shall be — 
Please God — where there is no more sea 
Nor barren wilderness. 

Heaven overarches you and me. 

And all earth's gardens and her graves. 
Look up with me, until we see 
The daybreak and the shadows flee. 
What though to-night wrecks you and me, 
If so to-morrow saves ! 

Christina G. Rossetti. 



468 



THE GATES OF PEARL. 




The quality of mercy is not strained ; 
It droppeth as the gentle dew from heaven 
Upon the jilace beneath : it is twice blessed ; 
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes: 
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes 
The throned monarch better than his crown. 
William Shakespeare. 

BEYOND. 

A WANDERER far in the gloomy night 
Had traversed his way, alone ; 
Nor compass, nor chart, nor beacon light, 
On his tortuous pathway shone ; 
And the storm came on, like a demon's tread, 

And the labors of man were tost 
On the seething tempest, as hope were fled. 

And the weary soul were lost ; 
But soft through that tempest's billowy wrath, 
A bright ray glinted across the path ; 
Like the voice of an angel, far and free, 
Rang " Near — er, my God, to Thee — 
Near— er to Thee !" 

The rage of that tempest, fierce and wild, 

Like the marshaled hosts of wrong, 
Dispelled, as the voice of the gentle child 

Continued its heaven-taught song. 
And the wanderer bravely struggled on 

Toward that doubly sacred goal, 
For the blissful light of a perfect dawn 

Had gladdened his eager soul ; 
He stood, transfixed by a mystic spell, 
As the song like an inspiration fell : 
" Still — all — my — song — shall — be, 
Near — er, my God, to Thee — 
Near — er to Thee !" 

Oh, thus do the bitter storms conceal 

The light of a perfect day ; 
Thus does the sacred song reveal 

Hope's beauteous beacon ray ; 



Gethsemane heard the pilgrim's cry 

That echoed in worlds above ; 
The thunders that crashed from Sinai 

But opened the gates of love ; 
The song that is echoing down the years, 
With their heaving tempest of doubts and fears, 
The wanderer's compass and chart shall be ! 
" Near — er, my God, to Thee — 
Near— er to Thee!" 

MARY MAQDAEEN. 

FROM THE SPANISH. 

BLESSED, yet sinful one, and broken-hearted! 
The crowd are pointing at the thing for- 
lorn, 
In wonder and in scorn ! 
Thou weepest days of innocence departed ; 

Thou weepest, and thy tears have power to move 
The Lord to jnty and love. 

The greatest of thy follies is forgiven, 

Even for the least of all the tears that shine 
On that pale cheek of thine. 
Thou didst kneel down, to Him who came from 
heaven. 
Evil and ignorant, and thou shalt rise 
Holy, and jiure, and wise. 

It is not much that to the fragrant blossom 

The ragged brier should change ; the bitter fir 
Distil Arabian myrrh ! 
Nor that, upon the wintry desert's bosom, 

The harvest should rise plenteous, and the swain 
Bear home the abundant grain. 

But come and see the bleak and barren mountains 
Thick to their tops with roses ; come and see 
Leaves on the dry dead tree ; 
The perished ])lant, set out by living fountains, 
Grows fruitful, and its beauteous branches rise, 
For ever, toward the skies. 

W. C. Bryant. 

THE QUAKER OF THE OLDEN TIME. 

THE Quaker of the olden time ! — 
How calm and firm and true. 
Unspotted by its w rong and crime, 
He walked the dark earth through; 
The lust of power, the love of gain. 

The thousand lures of sin 
Around him, had no power to stain 
The purity within. 

With that deep insight which detects 

All great things in the small, 
And knows how each man's life affects 

The spiritual life of all, 
He walked by faith and not by sight, 

By love and not by law ; 
The presence of the wrong or right 

He rather felt than saw. 




THE OLD BEDFORD CHURCH. 



469 



470 



THE GATES OF PEARL. 



He felt that wrong with wrong partakes, 

That nothing stands alone, 
That whoso gives the motive, makes 

His brother's sin his own. 
And, pausing not for doubtful choice 

Of evils great or small. 
He listened to that inward voice 

Which called away from all. 



from their habitations, and, with solemn demea- 
nor, bend their measured steps to the meeting- 
house ; — the families of the minister, the squire, 
the doctor, the merchant, the modest gentry of the 
village, and the mechanic and laborer, all arrayed 
in their best, all meeting on even ground, and all 
with that consciousness of independence and 
equality, which breaks down the pride of the rich. 




Oh ! Spirit of that early day. 

So pure and strong and true, 
Be with us in the narrow way 

Our faithful fathers knew. 
Give strength the evil to forsake. 

The cross of truth to bear, 
And love and reverent fear to make 

Our daily lives a prayer ! 

J G. Whittier. 

A SABBATH IN THE COUNTRY. 



THE Sabbath morning is as peaceful as the 
first hallowed day. Not a human sound is 
heard without the dwellings, and, but for 
the lowing of the herds, the crowing of the 
cocks, and the gossiiiing of the birds, animal lif-' 
would seem to be extinct, till, at the bidding of 
the church -going bell, the old and young issue 



and rescues the ])Oor from servility, envy, and dis- 
content. If a morning salutation is reciprocated, | 
it is in a supjiressed voice ; and if, perchance, 
nature, in some reckless urchin, burst forth in 
laughter— "My dear, you forget its Sunday," is | 
the ever-ready reproof. 

Though every face wears a solemn aspect, yet 
we once chanced to see even a deacon's muscles 
relaxed by the wit of a neighbor, and heard him 
allege, in a halfdejirecating, half-laughing voice, 
"The squire is so droll, that a body must laugh, 
though it be Sabbath-day." 

Towards the close of the day (or to borrow a 
phra'^e descriptive of his feelings, who first used 
it), " when the Sabbath begins to abated thechil-l 
dren cluster about the windows Their eyes wan-| 
der from their catechism to the western sky, and, 
though it seem^ to them as if the sun would never! 
disappear, his broad disk does slowly sink behindl 



THE GATES OF PEARL. 



471 



the mountain ; and, while his last ray still lingers 
on the eastern summits, merry voices break forth, 
and the ground resounds with bounding footsteps. 
The village belle arrays herself for her twilight 
walk ; the boys gather on " the green ;" the lads 
and girls throng to the " singing school ;" while 
some coy maiden lingers at home, awaiting her 
evpected suitor; and all enter upon the pleasures 
of the evening with as keen a relish as if the day 
had been a preparatory penance. 

Catherine M. Sedgwick. 



w 



THE FOLD. 

HEN God shall o|>e the gates of gold, 
The portals of the heavenly fold. 
And bid his flock find pasture wide 
Upon a new earth's green hillside, 

What poor strayed sheep shall thither fare, 
Black-smirched beneath the sunny air, 
To wash away in living springs 
The mud and mire of earthly things 1 

What lonely ewes with eyes forlorn, 
With weary feet and fleeces torn. 
To whose shorn back no wind was stayed. 
Nor any rough ways smooth were made : 

What happy little lambs shall leap 
To those sad ewes and spattered sheep, 
With gamesome feet and joyful eyes. 
From years of play in Paradise ! 

The wind is chill, the hour is late ; 
Haste Thee, dear Lord, undo the gate, 
For grim wolf-sorrows prowl and range 
These bitter hills of chance and change : 

And from the barren wilderness 
With homeward face Thy flocks do press : 
Their worn bells ring a jangled chime — 
Shepherd, come forth, 'tis eventime. 

THE GOLDEN STREET. 

HE toil is very long and I am tired : 

Oh, Father, I aiii weary of the way ! 
Give me that rest I have so long desired ; 
Bring me that Sabbath's cool, refreshing day, 
And let the fever of my world-worn feet 
Press the cool smoothness of the golden street. 

Tired, — very tired! And I at times have seen. 
When the far pearly gates were open thrown 
For those who walked no more with me, the green 
Sweet foliage of the trees that there alone 

At last wave over those whose world-worn feet 
Press the cool smoothness of the golden street. 

When the gates open, and before they close — 
Sad hours but holy— I have watched the tide 

Whose living crystal there forever flows 
Before the throne, and sadly have I sighed 



T 



To think how long until my world-worn feet 
Press the cool smoothness of the golden street. 

They shall not wander from that blessed way ; — 

Nor heat, nor cold, nor weariness, nor sin, 
Nor any clouds in that eternal day 

Trouble them more who once have entered in ; 
But all is rest to them whose world-worn feet 
Press the cool smoothness of the golden street 

Thus the gates close and I behold no more, — 

Though, as I walk, they open oftener now 
For those who leave me and go on before ; — 
And I am lonely also while I bow 

And think of those dear souls whose world- 
worn feet 
Press the cool smoothness of the golden street. 

Tired, very tired! — but I will patient be, 

Nor will I murmur at the weary way : 
I too shall walk beside the crystal sea. 

And pluck the ripe fruit, all that God-lit day, 
When Thou, O Lord, shalt let my world-worn 

feet 
Press the cool smoothness of the golden street. 

William O. Stoddard, 

EMPTY PRAYERS. 

I DO not like to liear him pray — 
" Let blesssngs on the widow be," 
Who never seeks her home to say — 
" If want o'ertakes you, come to me." 
I hate the i)rayer, so long and loud, 

That's offered for the orphan's weal. 
By him who sees him crushed by wrong, 
And only with his lips doth feel. 

I do not like to hear her pray. 

With jeweled ears and silken dress, 
Whose washerwoman toils all day. 

And then is asked to "work for less." 
Such pious shavers I despise ; 

With folded arms and face demure, 
They lift to heaven their "angel" eyes. 

Then steal the earnings of the poor. 

OH, FOR THE BRIDAL FEAST. 

OH for the robes of whiteness ! 
Oh for the tearless eyes ! 
Oh for the glorious brightness 
Of the unclouded skies ! 

Oh for the no more weeping 
Within the land of love. 

The endless joy of keeping 
The bridal feast above. 

Charitie L. Smith. 



472 



THE GATES OF PEARL. 



PRAYER AND POTATOES. 

These quaint lines are said to have formed a part of a charity sermon preached at Dorchester, Mass. 




w 



ITH troubled face and neglected hair, 
An old dame sat in her old armchair, 
And wearily sighed, " Potatoes ! " 
For days and for weeks her meagre fare, 
As she sat alone in her old arm-chair, 

Had been nothing at all but potatoes. 

And now they were finished : bad or good, 
There remained for to day's and to-morrow's food 

Not one of her stock of potatoes. 
And she shook her head and she murmured, "Oh! 
Where shall I send ? to whom shall I go 

For another supply of potatoes?" 

And she thought of the deacon over the way — 
The deacon so ready to worship and pray. 

Whose cellar was full of potatoes. 
Said she, " I'll send for the deacon — yes ! 
He'll never grudge me a few, I guess, 

Out of such a store of potatoes." 

The deacon rame over as fast as he could, 
Rejoiced at a chance of doing her good. 

But never once thought of potatoes. 
" Now, tell me, "said he, " the chief want of your soul ;" 
And she, good woman, expecting a dole. 

Immediately said " Potatoes." 

But the deacon's religion w^ent not that way; 
He was more accustomed to preach and pray 

Than to give of his hoarded potatoes; 
Not catching at all what the old dame said, 
He rose to pray with uncovered head — 

But she only thought of potatoes. 

He prayed for wisdom and truth and grace : 
"Lord, send her light from Thy holy place !" 

She murmured, " Oli, send potatoes!" 
And still at the close of each prayer he said. 
He heard, or fancied he heard, instead 

This strange request for potatoes. 

The deacon got into quite a fuss — 

It was awful that folks should be thinking thus 

About perishing, carnal potatoes ! 
He slammed the door — for his wrath was stirred — 
And lo ! as it closed, a groan he heard, 

" Oh, give the hungry potatoes !" 



It followed him home to his cosy room, 
It haunted his soul in the midnight gloom, 

" Oh, give the hungry potatoes !" 
He could bear it no longer — he rose and dressed. 
And took from his cellar a bag of his best. 

His finest and best potatoes. 

Again he went to the widow's hut ; 
Her weary eyes she had never shut ; 
Still there she sat in her old arm-chair. 



With the same wan features, the same sad air; 
So, entering in, from his goodly store 
A bushel or more he poured on the floor. 
Of the pick of his prime potatoes. 

The widow's heart leaped up at the sight ; 

Her brow smoothed out and her eyes grew 

bright. 
"Now," said the deacon, "we'll kneel and pray." 
" Yes," said the widow, " 71010 you may." 



THE GATES OF PEARL. 



473 



So he kneeled him down on the sanded floor 
Which the cheery potatoes had trundled o'er, 
And such a prayer the deacon prayed 
As never before his lips essayed ; 
Stinted and slow it was wont to be, 
But now from his soul the prayer gushed free : 
To his softened eyes the tears must start ; 
"Amen" came up from the widow's heart — 
But never a word of potatoes. 

Would you, good people, who hear my tale 
Pray for the poor, and, praying, " prevail?" 
Then preface your prayers with kindly deeds; 
Search out the poor with their cares and needs, 
Pray for peace and pray for grace. 
Comfort and help from the holy i>lace ; 
Water of life and heavenly food ; 
Pray for them all, for all are good — 
But don't forget the potatoes. 



" Isaac ! my only son !" — The boy looked up, 
And Abraham turned his face away, and wept. 
"Where is the lamb, my father?" — Oh the 

tones, 
The sweet, the thrilling music of a child ! — 
How it doth agonize at such an hour ! — 
It was the last deep struggle. Abraham held 
His loved, his beautiful, his only son, 
And he lifted up his arm, and called on God — 
And lo ! God's angel stayed him — and he fell 
Upon his face, and wept. 

N. P. Willis. 



# 




for 



THE SACRIFICE OF ISAAC. 

IT was noon — 
And Abraham on Moriah bowed himself. 
And buried up his face, and jirayed 
strength. 
He could not look upon his son, and pray ; 
But, with his hand upon the clustering curls 
Of the fair, kneeling boy, he prayed that God 
Would nerve him for that hour. Oh ! man was 

made 
For the stern conflict. In a mother's love 
There is more tenderness ; the thousand chords. 
Woven with every fibre of her heart, 
Complain, like delicate harp-strings, at a breath; 
But love in man is one deep principle. 
Which, like a root grown in a rifted rock, 
Abides the tempest. He rose up, and laid 
The wood upon the altar. All was done. 
He stood a moment — and a deep, quick flush 
Passed o'er his countenance; and then he nerved 
His spirit with a bitter strength, and spoke — 



T 



OUR BELOVED DEAD. 

HEY say if our beloved dead 

Should seek the old familiar place, 
Some stranger would be there instead, 
And they would find no welcome face. 



I cannot tell how it might be 

In other homes — but this I know; 

Could my lost darling come to me, 
That she would never find it so. 

Ofttimes the flowers have come and gone, 
Ofttimes the winter winds have blown, 

The while her peaceful rest went on. 
And I have learned to live alone. 

Have slowly learned, from day to day, 
In all life's tasks to bear my part ; 

But whether grave, or whether gay, 
I hide her memory in my heart. 



474 



THE GATES OF PEARL. 



Fond, faithful love has blest my way, 

And friends are round me, true and tried ; 

They have their place — but hers to-day 
Is empty as the day she died. 

How would I spring with bated breath, 
And joy too deep for word or sign, 

To take my darling home from death. 
And once again to call her mine. 

I dare not dream — the blissful dream, 
It fills my heart with wild unrest ; 

Where yonder cold white headstones gleam 
She still must slumber — God knows best. 

But this I know, that those who say 
Our best beloved would find no place, 

Have never hungered every dav — 

Tiirouijh vears and \'ears — for one sweet face. 



NO THORN WITHOUT A ROSE. 



unp 



HERE is no rose without a thorn !" 
Who has not found this true. 

And known that griefs of gladness born 
Our footsteps still pursue? 

That in the grandest harmony 

The strangest discords rise ; 
The brightest bow we only trace 

Upon the darkest skies ? 

No thornless rose ! So, more and more, 

Our pleasant hopes are laid 
Where waves this sable legend o'er 

A still sepulchral shade. 

Rut faitli and love, \\ ith angel-might, 

Break up life's dismal tomb. 
Transmuting into golden light 

The words of leaden gloom. 

Reversing all this funeral pall, 
Wliite raiment they disclose ; 

Their ha|)py song floats full and long, 
" No thorn without a rose! 

" No shadow, but its sister light 
Not far away must burn ! 
No «eary night, but morning bright 
Shall follow in its turn. 

" No chilly snow, but safe lielow, 
A million buds are sleeping ; 
No w^intry days, but fair s])ring rays 
Are swiftly onward sweeping. 

" With fiercest glare of summer air 
Comes fullest leafy shade ; 
And ruddy fruit bends every shoot, 
Because the blossoms fade. 



" No note of sorrow but shall melt 
In sweete.-.t chord unguessed ; 
No labor all too pressing felt, 
But ends in quiet rest. 

" No sigh, but from the harps above 
Soft echoing tones shall win ; 
No heart-wound, but the Lord of Love 
Shall pour his comfort in. 

" No withered hope, while loving best 
Thy Father's chosen way ; 
No anxious care, for he will bear 
Thy burdens every day. 

" Thy claim to rest on Jesus' breast 
AH weariness shall be. 
And pain thy portal to his heart 
Of boundless sympathy. 

" No conflict, bu'. the King's own hand 
-Shall end the glorious strife ; 
No death, but leads thee to the land 
Of everlasting life." 

Sweet seraph voices, faith and love ! 

Sing on within our hearts 
This strain of music from above. 

Till we have learnt our parts : 

Until we see your alchemy 

On all that years disclose, 
And, taught by you, still find it true, 

" No thorn without a rose I" 

Frances Ridley Havergal. 



T 



THE OUTDOOR CHURCH. 

HE carven pillars of the trees, 

The flowered mosaic of the grass, 
The green transparent traceries 
Of leaf on leaf that lightly lies 

And lightly moves when breezes pass. 

The anthem of the waterfall, 

My chorister the blackbird's lay. 
And mingling with, suffusing all, 
Borne by the wind and still let fall. 
The incense of the new-mown hay: — 

This is my church, my altar there ; 

Here Earth the kindly mother kneels. 
Her mighty hands outs|)read in prayer. 
While o'er her brow the sunny air, 

A south wind hill of blessing, steals. 

She wraps me in her mantle-fold, 
I kneel and pray lieside her there 

As children do whom mothers hold. 

And living air, and sunlight-gold. 

And wood and meadow, pray with me. 
Eva Keane 



THE GATES OF PEARL. 



475 



B 



Rest 

Rest 
Rest 



REST. 

EAUTIFUL toiler, thy work all done, 
Beautiful soul into glory gone, 
Beautiful life with its crown now won, 
God giveth thee rest, 
from all sorrows, and watching, and fears, 
from all possible sighing and tears, 
through God's endless, wonderful years — 
At home with the blest. 

Beautiful spirit, free from all stain, 
Ours the heartache, the sorrow and pain. 
Thine is the glory and infinite gain — ■ 

Thy slumber is sweet. 
Peace on the brow and the eyelids so calm, 
Peace in the heart, 'neath the white folded palm. 
Peace drooping down like a wondrous balm 

From the head to the feet 

" It was so sudden," our white lips said, 
•" How we shall miss her, the beautiful dead, 
Who take the place of the precious one fled ; 

But God knoweth best. 
We know He watches the sjjarrows that fall. 
Hears the sad cry of the grieved hearts that call. 
Friends, husband, children, He loveth them all — 
We can trust for the rest." 

M.A.RY T. Lathrop. 

THE WAY. 

AWEARY, wandering soul am I, 
O'erburthened with an earthly weight, 
A pilgrim through the world and sky. 
Toward the Celestial Gate. 

Tell me, ye sweet and sinless flowers, 
Who all night gaze upon the skies, 

Have ye not in the silent hours 
Seen aught of Paradise? 

Ye birds that soar and sing, elate 

With joy, that makes your voices strong. 

Have ye not at the golden gate 
Caught somewhat of your song ? 

Ye waters, sparkling in the morn. 
Ye seas, which glass the starry night, 

Have ye not from the imperial bourn 
Caught glimpses of its light ? 

Ye hermit oaks, and sentinel pines. 
Ye mountain forests old and grey, 

lu all your long and winding lines 
Have ye not seen the way ? 

O moon, among thy starry bowers, 

Know'st thou the path the angels tread? 

Seest thou beyond thy azure towers 
The shining gates dispread ? 

Ye holy spheres, that sang with earth 
When earth was still a sinless star. 

Have the immortals heavenly birth 
Within your realms afar? 



And thou, O sun ! whose light unfurls 

Bright banners through unnumbered skies, 

Seest thou among thy subject worlds 
The radiant portals rise ? 

All, all are mute I and still am I 

O'erburthened with an earthly weight ; 

A pilgrim through the world and sky, 
Toward the Celestial Gate. 

No answer wheresoe'er I roam — 
From skies afar no guiding ray ; 

But hark ! the voice of Christ says, " Come ! 
Arise ! I am the way ! ' ' 

Thomas B Read. 



o 



ONCE UPON A TIME. 

NCE upon a time life lay before me. 
Fresh as a story untold, 
Now so many years have traveled o'er me 
I and the story are old. 

Once upon a time my locks fell flowing, 

Brown as yours and as bright ; 
Now so many winters coming and going 

Have left them, you see, snow-white. 

Once upon a time I, too, had a lover. 

Gallant and full of grace ; 
Now do you think, dear, you can discover 

Him in grandpapa's face ? 

Once upon a time I thought it living 

Only to draw my breath ; 
Now I've learned that it means a striving, 

Sometimes even to death. 

Once upon a time I fell to weeping 

If but my wish was crossed ; 
Now I can trust to a better keeping. 

Even if all seem lost. 

Once upon a time it looked so dreary 

Ever to wait and rest ; 
Now, at last, I'm a little weary, 

Resting a while seems best — 

Waiting a while, till the great to-morrow 

Over the hill-tops climb. 
Joy is forever. Thank God, dear, that sorrow 

Only is once upon a time. 

Louisa Bushnell. 

PEACE OF MIND. 

O PEACE of mind, angelic guest. 
Thou soft companion of the breast, 
Dispense thy balmy store! 
Wing all our thoughts to reach the skies. 
Till earth, receding from our eyes. 
Shall vanish as we soar! 

Oliver Goldsmith. 



476 



THE GATES OF PEARL. 



AN IDEAL CITIZEN. 

THE ideal citizen is the man who believes that 
all men are brothers, and that the nation is 
merely an extension of his family, to be 
loved, respected and cared for accordingly. Such 
a man attends personally to all civic duties with 
which he deems himself charged. Those which 
are within his own control he would no more trust 
to his inferiors than he would leave the education 
of his children to kitchen servants. The public 
demands upon his time, thought and money come 
upon him suddenly, and olten they find him ill 
prepared ; but he nerves himself to the inevitable, 
knowing that in the village, State and nation any 
mistake or neglect upon his part must impose a 
penalty, sooner or later, upon those whom he 
loves. John Habberton. 



I 



M 



A DISTANT CAROL. 

ARK, 
Leaning from the casement dark. 
How the keen, star-kindled light 
Of the pulseless winter night 
Glints upon the bosom white 
Of the frozen earth. 
Drear, even for that wond'rous birth, 

Lofty, lowly. 

Human, holy. 
Whereat now all earth rejoices. 
.Hark ! a distant choir of voices 
In a Christmas carol blending, 
To the sparkling sky ascending. 
Hear the far chimes' measured ringing 
Faintly blended with the singing ; 

Sinking, soaring. 

Soft, adoring. 
Midnight now hath found a tongue, 
As though the choired stars that sung 
High circling over them 
That watched in Bethlehem, 

Were echoing, echoing still. 

Peace and good will. 

Good will. 

Peace and good will to man. 
The voices wake again. 
Soft chimes their tones repeat, 
Oh, far-heard message sweet, 

So faintly heard as yet 

That men forget, 

Forget. 
Come nearer ; louder swell ! 
Soar, voices ! Peal, clear bell ! 
Wake echoes that shall last 
Till all the year be past ! 
When yuletide comes again, 
Still may good will to men 

Be echoing, echoing still — 

Peace and good will. 

Good will ! 

Katherine Von Harlingen. 



I KNOW NOT THE HOUR OF HIS COMING. 

KNOW not tlie hour of His coming ; 

I know not the day or the year; 
But I know that he bids me be ready 

For the step that I sometime shall hear 

I know not what lieth before me. 

It may be all pleasure, all care ; 
But I know at the end of the journey 

Stands the mansion He went to prepare. 

And whether in joy or in sorrow. 

Through valley, o'er mountain or hill, 

I will walk in the light of His presence, 
And His love all repining shall still. 

I know not what duties are waiting 
For hands that are willing and true ; 

And I ask but the strength to be faithful, 
And do well what he gives me to do. 

And if He should bid me stand idle — 
Just waiting — in weakness and pain, 

I have only to trust and be faithful. 
And sometime He'll make it all plain. 

And when His voice calls, in the morning, 
At noontime, perhaps, or at night. 

With no plea but the one. Thou hast called me, 
I shall enter the portals of light. 

Ezra Hallock. 

BLESSED ARE THE DEAD. 

I-ROM THE GERMAN. 

OHOW bkst are ye whose toils are ended ! 
Who, through death, have unto God 
? ascended ! 

Ye have risen 
From the cares which keep us still in prison. 

We are still as in a dungeon living, 

Still oppressed with sorrow and misgiving ; 

Our undertakings 

Are but toils, and troubles, and heart-breakings. 

Ye, meanwhile, are in your chambers sleeping. 
Quiet, and set free from all our wteping ; 
No cross nor trial 
Hinders your enjoyments with denial. 

Christ has wiped away your tears for ever ; 
Ye have that for which we still endeavor. 
To you are chanted 
Songs which yet no mortal ear have haunted. 

Ah ! who would not, then, depart with gladness, 

To inherit heaven for earthly sadness? 

Who here would languish 

Longer in bewailing and in anguish? 

Come,0 Christ, and loose the chains that bindust 
Lead us forth, and cast this world behind us ! 
With Thee, the Anointed, 
Finds the soul its joy and rest appointed. 

Simon Dach. 



WIT AND WISDOM: 



COMPRISING 



SPARKLING GEMS FROM THE WORLD'S HUMORISTS. 




BILL'S IN TROUBLE! 

'VE got a letter, parson, from my son away out West, 
An' my ol' heart is heavy as an anvil in my breast, 
To think the boy whose futur' I had once so proudly planned 
Should wander from the path o' right an' come to sich an end ! 
I told him when he left us only three short years ago, 
He'd find himself a-plowin' in a mighty crooked row — 
He'd miss his father's counsels, an' his mother's prayers, too. 
But he said the farm was hateful, an' he guessed he'd have to gOt 

I know thar's big temptation for a youngster in the West, 
But I believed our Billy had the courage to resist. 
An' when he left I warned him o' the ever-waitin' snares 
That lie like hidden sarpints in life's pathway everywheres. 
But Bill he promised faithful to be keerful, an' allowed 
He'd build a reputation that 'd make us mighty proud. 
But it seems as how my counsel sort o' faded from his mind. 
An' now the boy's in trouble o' the very wustest kind ! 



His letters came so seldom that I somehow sort o' knowed 

That Billy was a-trampin' on a mighty rocky road. 

But never once imagined he would bow my head in shame, 

An' in the dust 'd waller his ol' daddy's honored name. 

He writes from out in Denver, an' the story's mighty short ; 

I just can't tell his mother ; it'll crush her poor ol' heart ! 

An' so I reckoned, parson, you might break the news to her — 

Bill's in the Legislatur', but he doesn't say what fur. 



JACK, WHO SEWS HIS BUTTONS ON. 



JACK, who sews his buttons on. 
Lives on the toppest floor. 
An' every day, before he's gone. 
We raps upon his door ; 
He hollers loud : " Come right in, kids !' 
An' laughs an' says : " Take off your lids !" 
Ma says that's slang, but me an' Don 
Likes Jack, who sews his buttons on. 

Sometimes to please us two he plays 

His yaller violin ; 
An', say ! his eyes jest seem to blaze — 

I hoi' my breath right in 
An' seem to be a floatin' roun' 
In some bright jilace above the groun', 
A driftin' way from little Don 
With Jack, who sews his buttons on. 



He does th' awful queerest things ; 

He sleeps all day, 'en goes 
An' writes about th' folks what sings 

An' plays in actor shows ; 
He smokes a skull pipe, an' his hair 
Is always mussed, an' he don't care 
How much we pull it — me an' Don — 
01' Jack, who sews his buttons on. 

Ma says that he has sowed wild wheat, 

'N's a prodigious son. 
But wunst a lady, dressed so sweet. 

Went upstairs on th' run 
An' called him her'n an' burst in tears- 
An' 'en th' door shut — but it 'pears 
He wouldn't go, an' me an' Don 
Kept Jack, who sews his buttons on. 

477 



478 



W/T AND WISDOM. 



One day last week a piece ma read, 

Near made her faint away ; 
It said 'at Jack, right from his head 

Had wrote a actor play. 
An' he wa' rich an' famous, too, 
An' ma says : '• Here's a howd'y do !" 
Now all 'cept us says Mistar John 
To Jack, who sews his buttons on. 

Arthur Chapman. 



w 



TWO ON A TANDEM. 

HEN all the tiny wheeling stars 

Their cycle lamps have lit. 
And, bending o'er their handle bars, 
CJn roads celestial flit, 

I trundle out my tandem fleet. 

With Daisy at my side ; 
We mount, and then our flying feet 

Propel us far and wide. 

Along the smooth secluded pike 

We take our evening run, 
Two souls with but a single bike. 

Two hearts that scorch as one. 

ICarl H. Eaton. 

THE PARROT AND THE CAT. 

I'VE a deep domestic tragedy that calls for your 
attention, 
If your sympathy a minute you'll be good 
enough to grant ; 
And, by way of a beginning to my story, I mav 
mention. 
That a year or so ago, you know-, I liad a maiden 
aunt. 
I was constant in my visits to her hospitable 
dwelling. 
For a quiet cup of coffee and a comfortable 
chat. 
She possessed a mint of money — and the fact is 
worth my telling. 
That she also had a parrot, and she also had a 
cat. 

I confess that I was jealous, for my aunt was deeply 
smitten 
With her biped and her quadruped, and all their 
pretty tricks ; 
She had known the cat and loved it ever since it 
was a kitten. 
She had known and loved the jiarrot wlien the 
bird was under six. 
And the beast was very clever, and the bird was 
very funny ; 
For the bird was good at language, and the 
beast was good at rats ; 
But I hardly liked the notion that my aunt should 
leave her monev 
To a hospital for parrots, or dispensary for cats. 



So I seized an op|)ortunity whenever I could get it 
To instruct these hated animals in very wicked 
ways ; 
Pretty Poll was very rapid at the lessons that I 
set it. 
Pretty Pussy was a pupil to deserve the highest 
praise. 
If you ever heard a sailor speak the dialect of 
Wapping, 
I assure you that the parrot spoke a little worse 
than that ; 
And its only very rarely that you find a creature 
dropping 
Into such abandoned habits as that miserable 
cat. 

When I found myself the master of this noble 
situation, 
I would gladly paint my joy, you know (although, 
you know, I can't) ; 
And a month or so ago, you know, I heard with 
resignation 
That I'd lost a friend and relative — I mean my 
maiden aunt. 
When the lady's will and testament was read by 
her attorney 
I was naturally present, with a crape about my 
hat: 
I was paid for all my trouble, and rewarded for 
my journey 
By a legacy consisting of — the parrot and the 
cat. 

Henry S. Leigh. 

THE SCIENTIFIC SLUGGARD. 

J' I ■'IS the voice of the scientist, hear him ex- 
I ])lain ; 

■*■ " Don't get up too soon, it is bad for the 
brain ; 
The mind it unhinges," he ruthlessly said ; 
" If you rise in the morning too soon from vour 
bed." 

" Go- early to bed and be early to rise, 
And so you'll be healthy and wealthy and w^ise;" 
But how about those agricultural hands. 
Who do all the year round what the proverb com- 
mands ? 

I passed by his garden quite earl\- one morn, 
.\nd saw him uprooting the thistle and thorn ; 
His limbs are rheumatic, his energy flag.s, 
And as for his trousers and shirt, they were rags. 

I spoke to the yokel, still hoping to find 
That rising so early was good for his mind ; 
He doddered and drivelled, alas, it was plain 
The wortliy bucolic was three parts insane. 

Said I in my heart : Here's a lesson for me. 
That man is a picture of what I might be ; 
Then thanks to the Science, tor teaching so clearly, 
It's (|uite a delus'on to get up too early. 




THE SLUGGARD'S BREAKFAST. 



479 



480 



WIT AND WISDOM. 



REUBEN AND MATILDA. 

SAYS Reuben Knott unto his fair, 
]n language burning hot : 
" Matilda, do you love me, dear? " 
Says she : "I love you Knott. ' ' 

" Oh, say not so !" again he cried : 

"Oh, share with me my lot ! 
Oh, say that you will be my bride !" 

Says she : " I'll wed you, Knott." 

" Oh, cruel fair, to serve me so ! 

I love you well, you wot !" 
"I could not wed you, Reub," says she, 

" For then I should be Knott." 

A light broke in on Reuben's mind 

As in his arms she got ; 
She looks demurely in his face 

And savs : " Pray kiss me, Knott !" 

THE OLD-FASHIONED LAUNDRESS. 

HOW dear to ni\- sight are the shirts of my 
].>ast days, 
AVhen mem ry recalls them so perfect and 
fair. 
That never went through any steam laundry fast 
ways. 
But hung, bleaching and drying, in ])urely fresh 
air. 
The edges iinfrayed, as they danced in the day- 
light, 
The buttonholes fracturcless, free from all rent, 
The tubs with the bubbles presenting a gay sight. 
And e'en the stout laundress that over them 
bent — 
The old-fashioned laundress, the home-keeping 
laundress. 
The singing old laundress that over them bent. 

That old-fashioned laundress was surely a treasure, 

John Chinaman then was in distant Cathay, 
And dragging machines used no shirts at their 
pleasure, 
And chemicals then ate no linen away. 
How deftly she turned them and rubbed them and 
scrubbed them. 
And put tliem in boilers with honest intent. 
And when with her strong arms slie gently had 
wrung them. 
We knew that the shirts needed no foreign 
scent — 
The old-fashioned laundress, the home-keeping 
laundress, 
The singing old laundress that over them bent. 

Then our shirts took a day and a year in their 
wearing. 
The bosoms ne'er cracked like a stiff, brittle 
board. 
And we put them on safe without fear of a tearing. 
And sung forth her praise in lofty accord. 



She never disappointed in whiteness or lustre. 
Nor caused us in "cuss words " our feelings to 
vent. 
And we gave her the best words our brain pan 
could muster. 
And said tliat from paradise sure she was sent — 
The old-fashioned laundress, the home-keeping 
laundress, 
The singing old laundress that over them bent. 



T 



SPELLING REFORMER. 

HERE was a young girl had two beaux; 
The best-looking one was named Meaux; 
But towards the cleaux 
Of his call he would deaux. 
And make a great noise with his neaux. 

THE WEDDING FEE. 

ONE morning, fifty years ago — 
When apple-trees were white with snow 
Of tragrant blossoms, and the air 
Was spellbound with the perfume rare — 
Upon a farm horse, large and lean. 
And lazy with its double load. 

A sun-brown youth and maid were seen 
Jogging along the winding road. 

Blue were the arches of the skies, 
liut bluer were that maiden's eyes ! 
The dewdrops on the gras5 were bright, 
But brigiiter was the loving light 
That sparkled 'neath each long-fringed lid, 
Where those bright eyes of blue were hid ; 
Adown the shoulders, brown and bare, 
Rolled the soft waves of golden hair. 

It was the fairest sight, I ween. 
That the young man had ever seenj 
And with his features all aglow, 
The hapjiy fellow told her so. 
And she, without the least surprise, 
Looked on him with those heavenly eyes — 
And drew the dear face to her own. 
And witli a joy but rarely known, 
Beneath the bridal bonnet hid — 
I cannot tell you what she did. 

So on they ride, until among 
The new-born leaves with dewdrops hung, 
The parsonage, arrayed in white. 
Peers out — a more than welcome sight. 

Then with a cloud upon his face, 
" What shall we do?" he turned to say, 
" Should he refuse to take his pay 

From what is in the pillow case?" 

And glancing down his eyes surveyed 
The pillow case before him laid. 
Whose contents, reaching to its hem. 
Might purchase endless joys for them. 



IV/T AND WISDOM. 



481 



The maiden answers : ' ' Let us wait ; 
To borrow trouble where's the need?" 

Then at the parson's squeaking gate 
Halted the more than willing steed. 

Down from his horse the bridegroom sprung ; 

The latchless gate behind him swung. 

The knocker of that startled door, 

Struck as it never was before, 

Brought the whole household, pale with fright. 

And there with blushes on his cheek, 

So bashful he could hardly speak, 

The parson met their wondering sight. 

The groom goes in, his errand tells. 
And as the parson nods, he leans 

Far out across the window-sill and yells — 
" Come in. He says he'll take the beans !" 
Oh ! how she jumped ! With one glad bound 
She and the bean-bag reached the ground. 

Then, clasping with each dimpled arm 
The precious products of the farm, 
She bears it through the open door, 
And down upon the parlor floor 
Dumps the best beans vines ever bore. 

Ah ! happy were their songs that day, 
When man and wife they rode away ; 

But happier this chorus still 

Which echoed through those woodland scenes: 
"God bless the priest of Whittensville ! 

God bless the man who took the beans." 

CABIN PHILOSOPHY. 

JES' turn de back-log, ober, dar — an' pull your 
stoo'es up nigher, 
An' watch dat 'possum cookin' in de skillet 
by de fire : 
Lemme spread my legs out on de bricks to make 

my feelin's flow. 
An' I'll grin' you out a fac' or two, to take befo' 
you go. 

Now, in dese busy wukin' days, dey's changed de 

Scripter fashions, 
An' you needn't look to mirakuls to furnish you 

wid rations ; 
Now, when you s wantin' loaves o' bread, you got 

to go and fetch 'em, 
An' ef you's wantin' fishes, you mus' dig your 

wums an' ketch 'em; 
For you kin put it down as sartin dat the time is 

long gone by. 
When sassages an' 'taters use to rain fum out de 

sky! 

Ef yo think about it keerfully, an' put it to the 

tes'. 
You'll diskiver dat de safes' plan is gin'ully de 

bes' ; 

31 



Ef you stumble on a hornets'-nes' an' make de 

critters scatter. 
You needn't stan' dar like a fool an' argefy de 

matter ; 
An' when de yaller fever comes an' settles all 

aroun', 
'Tis better dan de karanteen to shuffle out o' 

town ! 

Dar's heap o' dreadful music in de very fines' 
fiddle ; 

A ripe an' meller apple may be rotten in de mid- 
dle; 

De wises' lookin' trabeler may be de bigges' fool; 

Dar's a lot o' solid kickin' in the humbles' kind 
o' mule ; 

De preacher ain't de holiest' dat war's de meekes' 
look. 

An' does de loudes' bangin' on the kiver ob de 
book ! 

De people pays deir bigges' bills in buyin' lots 

an' lan's; 
Dey sca'ter all deir picayunes aroun' de peanut 

Stan's ; 
De twenties an' de fifties goes in payin' orf deir 

rents. 
But heben an' de organ grinder gits de copper 

cents. 

I nebber likes de cullud man dat thinks too 

much o' eatin'; 
But frolics froo de wukin' days, and snoozes at de 

meetin'; 
Dat jines de Temp'ance 'City, an' keeps a gettin' 

tight. 
An' pulls his water-millions in de middle ob de 

night ! 

Dese milerterry nigger chaps, with muskets in 
deir ban's, 

Perradin' froo de city to de music ob de ban's. 

Had better drop deir guns, an' go to marchin' wid 
deir hoes 

An' git a honest libbin' as dey chop de cotton- 
rows. 

Or de State may put 'em arter while to drillin' in 
de ditches, 

Wid more'n a single stripe a-running' 'cross deir 
breeches. 

Well, you think dat doin' nuffin' 'tall is mighty 

so' an' nice. 
But it busted up de renters in de lubly Paradise ! 
You see, dey bofe was human bein's jes' like me 

an' you. 
An' dey couldn't reggerlate deirselves wid not a 

thing to do ; 
Wid plenty wuk befo' 'em, an' a cotton crop to 

make, 
Dey'd nebber thought o' loafin' roun' an' chattin' 

wid de snake. 



482 



WIT AND WISDOM. 



ADAM NEVER WAS A BOY. 



o 



F all the men the world has seen 
Since time his rounds began, 

There's one I pity every day — 
Earth's first and foremost man ; 



He never with a pin-hook fished 
Along the brook alone ; 

He never sought the bumblebee 
Among the daisies coy, 




AT THE MASQUERADE. 



And then I think what fun he missed 

By failing to enjoy 
The wild delights of youth-time, for 

He never was a boy. 

He never stubbed his naked toe 
Against a root or stone ; 



Nor felt its business end, because 
He never was a boy. 

He never hookey played, nor tied 

The ever-ready pail, 
Down in the alley all alone, 

To trusting Fido's tail. 



WIT AND WISDOM. 



483 



And when he home from swimmin' came, 

His happiness to cloy, 
No slipper interfered, because 

He never was a boy. 

He might refer to splendid times 

'Mong Eden's bowers, yet 
He never acted Romeo 

To a six year Juliet. 
He never sent a valentine, 

Intended to annoy 
A good, but maiden aunt, because 

He never was a boy. 

He never cut a kite-string, no ! 

Nor hid an Easter egg ; 
He never ruined his pantaloons 

A - play i n g m u m b le- pe ^ ; 
He never from the attic stole, 

A coon-hunt to enjoy, 
To find ' ' the old man ' ' watching, for 

He never was a boy. 

I pity him. Why should I not ? 

I even drop a tear ; 
He did r.ot know how much he missed ; 

He never will, I fear. 
And when the scenes of " other days" 

My growing mind employ, 
I think of him, earth's only man 

\Vho never was a boy. 

T. C. Harbaugh. 

A SCHOOL-DAY. 

i i IV TOW, John," the district teacher says, 
\^ With frown that scarce can hide 
■*■ ^ The dimpling smiles around her mouth, 
Where Cupid's hosts abide, 
' What have you done to Mary Ann, 
That she is crying so ? 
Don't say 'twas ' nothing ' — don't, I say, 
For, John, that can't be so ; 

' For Mary Ann would never cry 

At nothing, I am sure ; 
And if you've wounded justice, John, 

You know the only cure 
Is punishment ! So, come, stand up; 

Transgression must abide 
The pain attendant on the scheme 

That makes it justified." 

So John steps forth, with sun-burnt face, 

And hair all in a tumble. 
His laughing e\es a contrast to 

His drooping mouth so humble. 
' Now, Mary, you must tell me all — 

I see that John will not, 
And if he's been unkind or rude, 

I'll whip him on the spot." 

' W — we were p — playin' p— pris'ner's b — base. 
An' h — he is s — such a t — tease, 



An' w — when I w — wasn't 1 — lookin', m — ■ 
ma'am, 

H — he k — kissed me — if you please !" 
Upon the teacher's face the smiles 

Have triumphed o'er the frown, 
A pleasant thought runs through her mind, 

The stick comes harmless down. 

But outraged law must be avenged ! 

Begone, ye smiles, begone ! 
Away, ye little dreams of love. 

Come on, ye frowns, come on ! 
I think I'll have to whip you, John, 

Such conduct breaks the rule ; 
No boy, except a naughty one. 

Would kiss a girl — at school." 

Again the teacher's rod is raised, 

A Nemesis she stands — 
A premium were put on sin, 

If punished by such hands ! 
As when the bee explores the rose 

We see the petals tremble, 
So trembled Mary's rosebud lips — 

Her heart would not dissemble. 

I wouldn't whip him very hard " — 

The stick stops in its fall — 
It wasn't right to do it, but — 

It didn't hurt at all!" 
What made you cry, then, Mary Ann?" 

The school's noise makes a pause, 
And out upon the listening air. 

From Mary comes — " Because I" 

W. F. McSparran. 

THREE STAGES. 



SIGHING like a furnace 
Over ears in love. 
Blind in adoration 
Of his lady's glove ; 
Thinks no girl was ever 
Quite so sweet as she. 
Tells you she's an angel, 
Expects you to agree. 

ACT II. 

Moping and repining, 

Gloomy and morose. 
Asks the price of poison, 

Thinks he'll take a dose. 
Women are so fickle. 

Love is all a sham, 
Marriage is a failure. 

Like a broken dam. 

ACT in. 

Whistling, blithe and cheerful, 
Always bright and gay, 



484 



WIT AND WISDOM. 



Dancing, singing, laughing, 

All the livelong day; 
Full of fun and frolic, 

Caught in fashion's whirl. 
Thinks no more of poison — 

Got another girl ! 

THE CYCLING ACADEMY. 

I USED to look down on bicyling and contemn 
it as a low form of amusement — or of exer- 
cise. But see how changeable we mortals are ! 
It is fashion that has, all unknowing, such a 
vast influence on us ! Instead of owning with the 
poet that " everything is spoilt by use," everything 
seems, on the contrary, only to become right and 
proper by use. Thus I and my sister, though no 
longer in our first youth, so strongly object to be 
left " high and dry" by the strong tide of bicycl- 
ism (the coinage of a word for the occasion must 
be excused ) that we one day presented ourselves, 
quaking, at the door of an establishment in the 
Edgebury Road, over which was written, in large 
gilt letters, " Ladies' Cycle School." 

At our feeble little knock the sacred portal was 
opened by a betouzled young woman, in ajjpear- 
ance something between a music hall "artiste" 
and a "general slavey," who bade us walk in. 
Once insitie, we beheld a strange scene. Within 
a round, covered enclosure, on a floor ot wooden 
planking, careered a number of bicycles, ridden 
by performers more or less ignorant of the accom- 
plishment. You could tell the stage of jjrogress 
at which they had arrived by the comparative 
anxiety apparent in their faces as well as by the 
amount of their conversation. 

"Why is it called 'Ladies' Cycle School'?" 
my sister murmured, referring me to the presence 
of two raw-boned personages of the male persua- 
sion, who might by courtesy be termed " military," 
and a chuckle-headed youth who appeared to be 
amusing himself by falling off his steed as many 
times as the celebrated knight in " Through the 
Looking-glass," fell off his. 

The attendant, who was near us, volunteered 
an answer to the question: "Where the lydies 
goes, the gents is sure to foller," was his reason- 
ing, given in a "stage aside." After this very 
lucid explanation we sat on chairs on a kind of 
dais and looked on, being told to "wait for our 
turns." 

Presently a timid knock was heard, and two 
elderly heads ])resented themselves at the door. 
These belonged to a prim old couple, evidently 
retired tradespeople, who were going to " try their 
luck." The wife, in grey ringlets and side-combs, 
was evidently much alarmed : " Oh, 'Enery," she 
said, with a gasp, " I niver can git on the back o' 
sich a new-fangled thing as that" "Law, yes, 
Mary Ann, you've only got to set on it — this 'ere 
Johnnie '11 do all the />us/un' . Look 'er out a 



^ui'ei one," he instructed the grinning attendant; 
"one as is warranted not to kick." "'Enery," 
who was of the stout order, evidently did not feel 
quite happy in his own mind. Another double 
knock, this time no hesitating one ; the undertaker 
from next door, his wife, and his two red-cheeked 
daughters, accompanied by the " young man " of 
one of these latter. " Look alive with them bikes, 
'Arry," said the paterfamilias, "for I ain't got 
more'n 'arf a hour afore my job's on ; and 
Chawles " — indicating the weak-kneed young man 
— "an' me 'as got to go on the coaches to 'Igh- 
gate." These were evidentl\ old customers, for 
the middle-aged couple and ourselves looked 
meekly and res])ectfully on while they were sup- 
plied with "bikes" all out of their turn. Indeed, 
they proceeded to show us what they could do in 
that line, and executed im/rs de force that made us 
shudder with fright. 

"Keep a heye on the door, J'mima," said the 
anxious parent after a few rounds. "Is them 
coaches up yet ? ' ' 

"No; but some mourners has come," J'mima 
answered, peeping. "Oh, my! sich crape, sich 
white 'anke-rchers ! " 

" W'e must keep 'em »aiting, ef it was the corp 
hisself," said papa, "till I've 'ad my money's 
worth." 

But here a little coiiiretaiips arose. The charm- 
er in green stockings, who had for some time 
been ogling " Chawles," here forgot herself so far 
as to enter into conversation with him, and pre- 
sently the two were careering round the arena 
([jardon the suggestive simile !) together, to the 
ineffable disgust of " Chawles's " Jiaticec, who, 
together with her sister, dismounted and carried 
on a lively conversation in no measured tones, in 
which the words "sich a liberty," " pufRck 
stranger," "some folks 'as a cheek," "bold-faced 
hussy," "good smack o' the 'ed," could from 
time to time be distinguished. " Chawles," who 
was "the kind of man that you could warrant 
townmade," not only took no notice of this, but 
presently added to his iniquities by getting his 
wheels locked in the siren's, both, as a result, 
heavily falling to the ground. The siren was 
helped off limping, and "Chawles" showed an 
evident desire to lollow and administer consola- 
tion, but was deterred by a severe look from his 
inamorata. What " words " might have followed 
we know not ; but luckily, at this juncture, papa, 
interposing with "The coaches is up," carried 
" Chawles " off, leaving the two girls to the finish- 
ing of their lesson, and to the bestowal of sundry 
furious glances at the green -stockinged delinquent, 
who feigned absolute unconsciousness of any 
" family row " on her account. 

" Now's your turn, miss. 'Ere's two nice bikes 
will suit you exactly — made a' purpose," said an 
attendant, coming our way. 



W/T AND WISDOM. 



485 



It is one thing to sit in safety and laugli at other 
people, and quite another to be an object of 
laughter yourself. Bat as the executioner— I 
mean the attendant — drew near with his dread 
machine, I felt, with the courage born of despair, 
that there was no help for it, and got clumsily into 
the saddle, clutching nervously at my "helper"' — 
who was, by the way, a very good specimen of the 
average London "loafer" — as I did so. 

"'Ere, look out, don't throttle me," he ob- 
served. "Ketch 'old of the 'andle ; but there, 
don't bear too 'eavy on it. Set up as strite as you 
can, and pedaH ' 

"Hold me tighter," I gasped, not knowing 
what the magic word "pedal" might mean, and 
feeling in imminent danger of falling off. 

" 'Ere, I see I must put a drawring-rein on yer." 
And the wretch proceeded to fasten a piece of 
leather, eight inches wide, round my unfortunate 
waist. " Now this is to give me a good grip of 
yer, d'ye see? Don't lollop so — set strite, can't 
yer? Ye're all o' one side." 

"Ye — 'ye — s, but my feet are getting mi.xed up 
with the machinery, and — -and one of my legs is 
much longer than the other," I protested feebly. 
The man treated this last remark with the con- 
tempt it deserved. " Pedal on, pedal on," he said 
sturdily. " W'y, y're gittin' along fymous." 

Here my machine suddenly gave a violent 
lurch, which nearly landed me in the arms of the 
chuckle-headed youth, who was still aimlessly 
gyrating in space. (In the middle of the arena 
he, with some other fiends in human shape, was 
learning to '' mount," to the imminent danger of 
innocent and quiet spirits like myself.) 

" 'Old on, 'old on," said my loafer, who, by the 
bye, smelt so strongly of onions that in my desire 
to get as far as possible from him I now nearly fell 
over on the other side. Stopping a bit to gain 
breath, I now beheld the elderly gentleman and 
his wife in the act of mounting. The wife, with 
a strong determination plainly written in her face, 
once ascended, held on like grim death ; but her 
husband had no sooner got up on one side than 
he fell off on the other. 

" 'Enery, for my sake," called his wife in 
agony, " be more keerful ! " 

'Enery got up dusty. 

"I can't aim to get my feet on them treadles," 
he said apologetically. "I guess it's 'cos I ain't 
never learnt the sewing-machine. My feet go 
round and round quite keerless-like." 

" Will ye set down and rest while I 'elp the old 
gent?" said my conductor; and, only too glad of 
a respite, I assented. Now, from the safety of the 
dais I beheld my sister going round quite swim- 
mingly—pushed, it is tni". by a " loafer," but still 
with an air of ease that filled me with envy. She 
sat up straight, she looked "somebody." The 
word "Toff," uttered in a tone of conviction, 



resounded in my neighborhood as she passed us. 
No one, I bitterly reflected, had taken me for a 
" I'off"; but, perhaps, my bearing on a bicycle 
was not exactly suggestive of that " repose " that 
is poetically supposed to denote " the caste of Vere 
de Vere." 

"That 'ere's a taisty dress, ain't it?" said the 
chuckle-headed youth suddenly in my ear, refi-r- 
ring to my sister's garb. I drew myself up ; and 
then, reflecting that it was one of my objects in 
life to "mix with the masses," relented and made 
myself affable. "Let me get yer a fourpenny 
Scotch," he said pleasantly, after a few minutes' 
conversation. 

Politely informing him that I belonged to a 
branch of the Blue Ribbon Army, I turned to 
watch the bicyclists. Now the sad woman in the 
red hat came round again ; on her depressed 
countenance was written a stern resignation. She 
dismounted, and sat close by me. "Do you 
enjoy bicycling?" I inquired of her, wishing to 
pursue my acquaintance with the masses. She 
looked at me sadly. " Well, you see, it's like 
this," she said in a low voice, " I'm engaged to a 
young man in the conurcial line. We've bin 
keepin' comp'ny now eight years, and on'y last 
Sunday was a week, 'e as good as told me 'e 
couldn't think o' gittin' merried to a girl as 
couldn't bike. So what could I do but come an' 
learn? You can't be lef be'ind, can yer? " 

This was a contingency that quite startled me. 
So bicycling, I thought, is to be added to the 
necessary accomplishments of a marriageable lady! 
Why, some lovers are as exacting as was the suitor 
in the late Marriage Agency case, who insisted 
that the girl of his affections should be "a good 
swimmer and fond of draughts and dominoes! " 
"She painted in water-colors, and of such is the 
Kingdom of Heaven." '• There is no end to the 
requirements oi fiancees," I thought, as I sympa- 
thized with this sad case. 

A very stout lady now engrossed my attention; 
she was objecting — and not unnaturally — to the 
"helper" provided, a tiny boy of some twelve 
summers, and small at that. " I really tnust have 
somebody bigger," she pleaded; " //<? can't never 
hold me up; I weigh fourteen stun if I weigh a 
pound." 

" Sich people as 'er oughter pay for two bikes 
i'stead of one," the Jehu remarked surlily, as the 
"lady" climbed into the saddle, with a liberal 
display of stocking in the process. It is, by the 
way, very ditficult for beginners in the art to know 
how to arrange their dresses, as shown by the vary- 
ing degrees of inelegance apparent in that direc- 
tion. Now came the elderly gentleman round 
again. 

"'Ow are ye a-gittin' on, 'Enery?" asked his 
wife, who, sitting in security beside me, could 
afford to be sympathetic. 



486 



W/T AND WISDOM. 



"Oh, prime," 'Enery replied, looking about as 
happy as a puppy under process of muzzling, and 
with his forehead similarly rucked up into a thou- 
sand wrinkles. " But my feet still come off them 
blamed pedals. Can't you make my stirrup 
shorter?" — this plaintively to the attendant. 

" It ain't a 'orse, sir," said the man testily. 

" No," said 'Enery ; " if it were a 'orse it would 
stand up straight, at any rate, and not keep a-tip- 
pin' me off one side or the other." In this 
remark I entirely concurred. 

When I was taken for my second "turn" I 
found that many riders, in the agony of the 
moment, not only mistook their "bikes" for 
horses, but also for boats. "'Ere, don't keep 
takin' my water ! " " 'Old your 'orse's 'ed up ! " 
"Gee wo!" " Mind- your oar!" were common 
expletives; and once,'w'hcn a railway whistle hap- 
pened to sound in close proximity, I myself own 
to feeling agonized lest my steed should "shy." 
It is so impossible to entirely dissociate the idea 
oi personality from the bicycle. I distinctly felt 
this with regard to the various " bikes " I watched. 
Some were like cart-horses, some like fiery steeds; 
some were meek, some irritating, some really evilly 
disposed; as, for instance, that "bike" on which 
a long-legged martial individual careered about in 
the middle of the enclosure, knocking down 
remorselessly everybody he happened to come 
across; or, no less sinful, the machine ridden by 
the siren in the scarlet blouse. A very meek 
bicycle, too, was just ahead of me. " How many 
lessons has that woman had?" I asked, denoting 
the lady in the red hat, who went on her sad little 
way in front of me. 

"That laidy," said my attendant reprovingly, 
" is at 'er fifth lesson ; but she'll never be a credit 
to us — not she." 

I was now come to the end of my hour's 
instruction, and as I descended I pressed a shil- 
ling " tip " gratefully into my loafer's horny palm. 
" But as Xo you," he continued, his face brighten- 
ing; "why, I'd guarantee j>w/'</ learn it in three 
days. You just give me a chance o' teachin' yer, 
and I don't mind bettin' any money on it." 

This little incident led on tlie way home toasome- 
what heated argument between my sister and myself. 
She had only had three-jience-worth of encourage- 
ment, and therefore, no doubt, felt sore. For what, 
after all, is even bicycling without encouragement? 

1 have only as yet had this one lesion ; but I 
bicycle all night in my dreams. I claim to have 
even invented a new form of nightmare, in which 
I continually fall off my bicycle, and it as remorse- 
lessly comes back and falls on the top of me; or 
else I bicycle, with tlie rapidity of the wind, eter- 
nally through endless a;ons of space. 

But I wish I could honestly think that that shil- 
ling had had no influence whatever on my guide's 
opinion. 



THE BABY IN THE CARS. 

WHAT great improvements nowadays on 
every line we find, 
New comforts, new contrivances of every 
sort and kind ; 
And different far the methods are of nineteenth 

century ways 
Compared with modes of traveling in our fore- 
fathers' days ! 
Yet still one nuisance irritates, one obstacle an- 
noys. 
One thorn that pricks the traveler's sides, his rose- 
bed rest destroys ; 
I'm not inclined to captiousness, nor given to com- 
plain. 
But what a crying nuisance is a baby in the train ! 

We've got more ventilation, and tightly-fitting 

doors. 
And Pullman cars and drawing-rooms and spacious 

corridors ; 
And there's no need at station bars to bolt a hasty 

feed, 
Good meals are served "on board," and if you 

like the fragrant weed 
You'll find a pleasant smoking-room, and lava- 
tories, too, 
And luxuries in many forms our fathers never 

knew. 
But all these pleasures manifold give place to grief 

and pain 
If some one brings to mar your bliss a baby in the 

train. 

HYGIENE. 

I CANNOT eat but little meat, 
By microbes it is spoiled ; 
And sure I think I cannot drink. 
Save water that is boiled ; 
And I'll endure low temperature. 

Since by the doctors told 
That to live long and keep us strong 
'Tis better to be cold. 

So let bacteria scourge and scare. 

With ailments manifold. 
To do us good we'll eat no food, 

And keep our bodies cold. 

I love no roast except dry toast, 

And that at stated terms ; 
And little bread I eat, in dread 

Of pathogenic germs; 
Of milk no whit I take, lest it 

Zymotic ills enfold. 
And fevers breed ; yet most I heed 

To keep my body cold. 

A keen east wind I never mind. 
And fifty Fahrenheit 



IV/T AND WISDO2M. 



487 



Is the degree that best suits me, 

By day and eke by night ; 
Thus wise I strive to keep alive, 

And haply to grow old, 
With beef uncarved, athirst and starved, 

And perished with the cold. 

So let bacteria scourge and scare, 

With ailments manifold. 
To do us good we'll eat no food, 

And keep our bodies cold. 



SAINT 



ANTHONY'S SERMON TO THE 
FISHES. 



FROM THE GERMAN. 



s 



AINT Anthony at church 
Was left in the lurch. 
So he went to the ditches 
And preached to the fishes. 
They wriggled their tails, 
In the sun glanced their scales. 

The carps, with their spawn, 

Are all thither drawn ; 

Have opened their jaws. 

Eager for each clause. 
No sermon beside 
Had the carps so edified. 

Sharp-snouted pikes, 

Who keep fighting like tikes. 

Now swam up harmonious 

To hear Saint Antonius. 
No sermon beside 
Had the pikes so edified. 

And that very odd fish. 

Who loves fast-days, the cod-fish — 

The stock-fish, I mean — 

At the sermon was seen. 
No sermon beside 
Had the cods so edified. 

Good eels and sturgeon 
Which aldermen gorge on. 
Went out of their way 
To hear preaching that day. 
No sermon beside 
Had the eels so edified. 

Crabs and turtles also, 
Who always move slow. 
Made haste from the bottom, 
As if the devil had got 'em. 
No sermon beside 
Had the crabs so edified. 

Fish great and fish small. 
Lords, lackeys, and all. 
Each looked at the preacher 
Like a reasonable creature. 



A 



At God's word, 
They Anthony heard. 

The sermon now ended. 

Each turned and descended ; 

The pikes went on stealing. 

The eels went on eeling. 

Much delighted were they. 
But preferred the old way. 

The crabs are backsliders. 

The stock-fish thick-siders. 

The carps are sharp set. 

All the sermon forget. 

Much delighted were they. 
But preferred the old way. 

Abraham A. Sancta Clara. 

A CHILD'S REASONING. 

SHE was ironing dolly's new gown. 
Maid Marian, four years old. 
With her brows puckered down 
In a painstaking frown 
Under her tresses of gold. 

'Twas Sunday, and nurse coming in 
Exclaimed in a tone of surprise : 

" Don't you know it's a sin 

Any work to begin 

On the day that the Lord sanctifies?" 

Then, lifting her face like a rose, 
Thus answered this wise little tot : 

" Now, don't you suppose 

The good Lord He knows 
This little iron aint hot?" 

THE REASON WHY. 

BOSTON master said, one day 
" Boys, tell me if you can, I pray. 
Why Washington's birthday should shine 
In to-day's history, more than mine?" 

At once such stillness in the hall 
You might have heard a feather fall ; 
Exclaims a boy not three feet high, 
" Because he never told a lie !" 



T 



THE INDIAN CHIEFTAIN. 

WAS late in the autumn of '53 

That, making some business-like excuse, 
I left New York, which is home to me. 

And went on the cars to Syracuse. 



Born and cradled in Maiden Lane, 
I went to school in Battery Row, 

Till when, my daily bread to obtain. 
They made me clerk to Muggins & Co. 

But I belonged to a genteel set 

Of clerks with souls above their sphere, 

Who night after night together met 
To feast on intellectual cheer. 



488 



WIT AND WISDOM. 



We talked of Irving and Bryant and Spratt — 
Of Willis, and how much they pay him per 
page— 

Of Sontag and Julian and Art, and all that — 
And what d'ye call it ? — the Voice of the Age ! 

We wrote little pieces on purling brooks. 

And meadow, and zephyr, and sea, and sky — 
Things of which we had seen good descriptions in 
books. 
And the last, between houses some sixty feet 
high ! 

Somehow in this way my soul got fired ; 

I wanted to see and hear and know 
The glorious things that our hearts inspired — 

The things that sparkled in poetry so ! 

And I had heard of the dark-browed braves 

Of the famous Onondaga race. 
Who once paddled the birch o'er Mohawk's 
waves. 

Or swept his shores in war and the chase. 

I'd see that warrior stern and fleet ! 

Aye, bowed though he be with oppression's 
abuse ; 
I'd grasp his hand ! — so in Chambers Street 

I took ray passage for Syracuse. 

Arrived at last, I gazed upon 

The smoke-dried wigwam of the tribe ; 

"The depot, sir," suggested one — 
I smiled to scorn the idle gibe. 

Then to the baggage-man I cried, 

"O, point me an Indian chieftain out!" 

Rudely he grinned as he replied, 
"You'll see 'em loafin' all about !" 

Wounded I turn — when lo ! e'en now 

Before me stands the sight I crave ! 
I know him by his swarthy brow ; 

It is an Onondaga brave ! 

I know him by his falcon eye. 

His raven tress and mien of pride ; 
Those dingy draperies, as they fly. 

Tell that a great soul throbs inside ! 

No eagle- feathered crown he wears, 

Capping in pride his kingly brow; 
But his crownless hat in grief declares, 

" I am an unthroned monarch now !" 

" O noble son of a royal line !" 

I exclaim, as I gaze into his face, 
" How shall I knit my soul to thine ? 

How right the wrongs of thine injured race? 

"What shall I do for thee, glorious one? 

To soothe thy sorrows my soul aspires. 
Speak ! and say how the Saxon's son 

May atone for the wrongs of his ruthless sires !" 



He speaks, he speaks ! — that noble chief! 

From his marble lips deep accents come ; 
And I catch the sound of his mighty grief — 

" Pie' gi' tne tree cent for git some rum .'" 



J 



JANE JONES. 

ANE JONES keeps a-whisperin' to me all the 
time. 
An' says: " Why don't you make it a rule 
To study your lessons, an' work hard an' learn, 

An' never be absent from school ? 
Remember the story of Elihu Burritt, 

How he dumb up to the top ; 
Got all the knowledge 'at he ever had 

Down in the blacksmithin' shop." 
Jane Jones she honestly said it was so ; 

Mebby he did — I dunno ; 
'Course, what's a-keepin' me 'way from the top 
Is not never havin' no blacksmithin' shop. 

She said 'at Ben Franklin was awfully poor, 

But full o' ambition and brains 
An' studied philosophy all 'is hull life — 

An' see what he got for his pains. 
He brought electricity out of the sky 

With a kite an' the lightnin' an' key, 
So we're owin' him more'n any one else 

For all the bri-ht lights 'at we see. 
Jane Jones she actually said it was so. 

Mebby he did — I dunno; 
'Course, what's allers been hinderin' me 
In not havin' any kite, lightnin' or key. 

Jane Jones said Columbus was out at the knees 

When he first thought up his big scheme ; 
An' all of the Spaniards an' Italians, too, 

They laughed an' just said 'twas a dream ; 
But Queen Isabella she listened to him, 

An' ])awned all her jewels o' worth. 
An' bought 'im the " Santa Marier " 'n said: 

" Go hunt up the rest of the earth." 
Jane Jones she honestly said it was so ; 

Mebby he did — I dunno ; 
'Course, that may all be, but you must allow 
They ain't any land to discover just now. 

Ben King. 



w; 



WHY DON'T YOU LAUGH? 

HY don't you laugh, young man, when 

troubles come. 
Instead of sitting 'round so sour and glum? 
You cannot have all play, 
And sunshine every day; 
When troubles come, I say, why don't you laugh? 

Why don't you laugh? 'Twill ever help to soothe 
The aches and pains. No road in life is smooth ; 

There's many an unseen bump. 

And many a hidden stump. 
O'er which you'll have to jump. \\ hy don't you 
laugh ? 



W/T AND WISDOM. 



489 



Why don't you laugh ? Don't let your spirits wilt, 
Don't sit and cry because the milk you've spilt; 

If you would mend it, now 

Pray let me tell you how : 
Just milk another cow ! Why don't you laugh ? 

Why don't you laugh, and make us all laugh, too. 
And keep us mortals all from getting blue ? 

A laugh will always win ; 

If you can't laugh, just grin — 
Come on, let's all join in ! Why don't you laugh ? 
James Courtney Challiss. 



" Oh, promise me, love, by the fire-hole you'll 
watch, 
And when mourners and stokers convene, 
You will see that they light me some solemn, 

slow matcli, 
And warn them against kerosene. 

" It would cheer me to know, ere these rude 
breezes waft 
My essences far to the pole, 
That one whom I love will look to the draft. 
And have a fond eye on the coal. 




THE STEPMOTHER. 



THE MAIDEN'S LAST FAREWELL. 



T 



IN THE DAY OF CREMATION. 

HEN the night wore on, and we knew the 
worst, 
That the end of it all was nigh ; 
Three doctors they had from the very first — 
And what could one do but die? 



" Oh, William I" she cried, " strew no blossoms of 

spring, 
For the new ' a])paratii.; ' might rust; 
But say that a handful of shavings you'll bring, 
And linger to eee me combust. 



Then promise me, love," — and her voice fainter 
grew — 

'•■ While this body of mine calcifies, 
You will stand just as near as you can to the flue. 

And gaze while my gases a.ise. 

ForThompson — Sir Henry — has found cutaway! 

(Of his 'process' you've surely heard tell). 
And you burn, like a ]iarlor-matcli, gently away. 

Nor even offend by a smell. 

So none of the dainty need sniff in disdain 
When my carbon floats up to the sky ; 

And I'm sure, love, that you will never complain, 
Though an ash should blow into your eye. 



490 



JV/T AND IV/SDOM. 



*' Now promise me, love " — and she murmured 
low — 
" When the calcification is o'er, 
You will sit by my grave in the twilight glow — 
I mean by my furnace door. 

*' Yes, promise me, love, while the seasons revolve 
On their noiseless axles, the years. 
You will visit the kiln where you saw me ' resolve,' 
And leach my pale ashes with tears." 

WHIP-POOR-WILL. 

HARK ! I hear the voice again ! 
Softly now and low. 
When the twilight s o'er the plain 
And the first stars glow. 
This is what it uttereth — 
In a rather mournful breath — 
" Whip-poor- Will ! Whip-poor-Will !" 

What has Will been doing now ? 

Has he truant played 
With a sad, coquettish brow 

From some simple maid? 
Did he steal her heart avvay? 
For I hear vou always say, 
" Whip-poor -Will ! Whip-poor-Will !" 

Tell me now what Will has done. 

Who's to whip him, dear? 
Is he some scamp full of fun 

That is straying near? 
Have you caught him at your nest 
By the ones you love the best ? 
" Whip-poor-Will ! Whip-poor-Will !" 

That is all you seem to say, 

Little bird so shy. 
Tell me now, without delav, 

Why whip Will, O why? 
There ! your voice fades in the lea — 
Leaving this command to me, 
" Whip-poor-Will ! Whip-poor-Will !" 

Monroe li. Rosenfeld. 

BAKIN AND GREENS. 

YO' may tell me ob pastries and fine oyster 
patties, 
Of salads and crowkets an' Boston baked 
beans. 
But dar's nuffin so temptin' to dis nigger's palate 
As a big slice ob bakin and plenty ob greens. 

Jes bile 'em right down, so dey'll melt when yo' 
eat 'em ; 
Hab a big streak ob fat an' a small streak o' 
lean ; 
Dar's nuffin on earf yo' kin fix up to beat 'em, 
Fur de king ob all dishes am bakin and greens. 



Den take some good co'hnmeal and sif it and 
pat it. 
An' put it in de ashes wid nufifin between ; 
Den blow off de ashes and set right down at it. 
For dar's nuffin like ashcake wid bakin and 
greens. 

'Twill take de ole mammies to fix 'em up greasy, 
Wid a lot ob good likker and dumplin's between, 

Take all yo' fine eatin', I won't be uneasy, 
If yo'U gimme dat bakin wid plenty ob greens. 

Rich folks in dar kerrage may frow de dust on 
me; 
But how kin I envy dem men ob big means. 
Dey may hab de dispepsey and do' they may scorn 
me, 
Dey can't enjoy bakin wid a dish ob good greens. 

You may ])ut me in rags, fill my cup up wid sor- 
row ; 

Let joy be a stranger, and trouble my dreams, 
But I still will be smilin', no pain kin I borrow, 

Ef you lebe me dat bakin wid plenty of greens. 



s 



DER BABY. 

O help me gracious, efery day 
I laugh me wild to see der vay 
My small young baby drie to play- 
Dot funny leetle baby. 



Ven I look on dhem leetle toes, 
Und saw dot funny leetle nose, 
Und heard der vav that rooster crows, 
I schmile like I was grazy. 

Und vhen I heard der real nice vay 
Dhem beoples to my wife dhey say, 
" More like his fater every day," 
I vas so proud like blazes. 

Sometimes dhere comes a leetle schquall, 
Dot's vhen der vindy vind vill crawl 
Righd in its leetle schtomach schmall — 
Dot's too bad for der baby. 

Dot makes him sing at night so schveet, 
Und gorrybarric he must eat, 
Und I must chumb shbry on my feet, 
To help dot leetle baby. 

He bulls my nose and kicks my hair, 
Und crawls me over everywhere, 
Und shlobbers me — but vai 1 care? 

Dot vas my schmall young baby. 

Around my head dot leetle arm 
Vas schqueezin me so nice and varm — 
Oh, mav dhere never come some harm 
To dot schmall leetle baby ! 



WIT AND WISDOM. 



491 



SPEECH OF SERGEANT BUZFUZ. 

YOU heard from my learned friend, gentle- 
men of the jury, that this is an action for a 
breach of promise of marriage, in which the 
damages are laid at fifteen hundred pounds. 
The plaintiff, gentlemen, is a widow ; yes, gentle- 
men, a widow. The late Mr. Bardell, sometime 
before his death, became the father, gentlemen, of 
a little boy. With this little boy, the only pledge 
of her departed exciseman, Mrs. Bardell shrunk 
from the world and courted the retirement and 
tranquillity of Goswell street ; and here she placed 
in her front parlor-window a written placard, bear- 
ing this inscription: "Apartments furnished 

FOR A SINGLE GENTLEMAN. INQUIRE WITHIN." 

Mrs. Bardell's opinions of the opposite sex, gen- 
tlemen, were derived from a long contemplation 
of the inestimable qualities of her lost husband. 
She had no fear — she had no distrust — allwascon- 
fidence and reliance. "Mr. Bardell," said the 
widow, "was a man of honor — Mr. Bardell was a 
man of his word — Mr. Bardell was no deceiver — 
Mr. Bardell was once a single gentleman himself: 
to single gentlemen I look for protection, for as- 
sistance, for comfort and consolation ; in single 
gentlemen I shall perpetually see something to re- 
mind me of what Mr. Bardell was, when he first 
won my young and untried affections ; to a single 
gentleman, then, shall my lodgings be let." 

Actuated by this beautiful and touching im- 
pulse (among the best impulses of our imperfect 
nature, gentlemen), the lonely and desolate widow 
dried her tears, furnished her first floor, caught her 
innocent boy to her maternal bosom, and put the 
bill up in her parlor-window. Did it remain 
there long ? No. The serpent was on the watch, 
the train was laid, the mine was preparing, the 
sapper and miner was at work. Before the bill 
had been in the parlor-window three days, gentle- 
men — a being, erect upon two legs, and bearing 
all the outward semblance of a man, and not of a 
monster, knocked at the door of Mrs. Bardell's 
house ! He inquired within ; he took the lodg- 
ings ; and on the very next day he entered into 
possession of them. This man was Pickwick — 
Pickwick the defendant ! 

Of this man I will say little. The subject pre- 
sents but few attractions; and I, gentlemen, am 
not the man, nor are you, gentlemen, the men to 
delight in the contemplation of revolting heart- 
Ijssness, and of systematic villany. I say system- 
atic villany, gentlemen ; and when I say system- 
atic villany, let me tell the defendant Pickwick if 
he be in court, as I am informed he is, that it 
would have lieen more decent in him, more be- 
coming, if he had stopped away. Let me tell him, 
further, that a counsel, in the discharge of his 
duty, is neither to be intimidated nor bullied, nor 
put down : and that any attempt to do either the 



one or the other will recoil on the head of the at- 
tempter, be he plaintiff or be he defendant, be his 
name Pickwick, or NoUes, or Stoaks, or Stiles, or 
Brown, or Thompson. 

I shall show, gentlemen, that for two years 
Pickwick continued to reside constantly, and 
without interruption or intermission, at Mrs. Bar- 
dell's house. 1 shall show you that Mrs. Bardell, 
during the whole of that time, waited on him, at- 
tended to his comforts, cooked his meals, looked 
out his linen for the washerwoman when it went 
abroad, darned, aired and prepared it for wear 
when it came home, and, in short, enjoyed his 
fullest trust and confidence. I shall shovi' you 
that, on many occasions, he gave half-pence, and 
on some occasions even sixpence, to her little boy. 
I shall prove to you, that on one occasion, when 
he returned from the country, he distinctly and 
in terms offered her marriage — previously, how- 
ever, taking special care that there should be no 
witnesses to their solemn contract ; and I am in a 
situation to prove to you, on the testimony of three 
of his own friends — most unwilling witnesses, gen- 
tlemen — most unwilling witnesses — that on that 
morning he was discovered by them holding the 
plaintiff in his arms, and soothing her agitation by 
his caresses and endearments. 

And now, gentlemen, but one word more. Two 
letters have passed between these parties— letters 
that must be viewed with a cautious and suspicious 
eye — letters that were evidently intended, at the 
time, by Pickwick, to mislead and delude any third 
parties into whose hands they might fall. Let me 
read the first: " Garraway's, twelve o'clock. — 
Dear Mrs. B. — Chops and Tomato sauce. Yours, 
Pickwick." Gentlemen, what does this mean? 
Chops and Tomato sauce ! Yours, Pickwick ! 
Chops! Gracious heavens! And Tomato sauce. 
Gentlemen, is the happiness of a sensitive and 
confiding female to be trifled away by such shal- 
low artifices as these ? 

The next has no date whatever, which is in it- 
self suspicious : "Dear Mrs. B., I shall not be at 
home to morrow. Slow coach." And then fol- 
lows this very remarkable expression: "Don't 
trouble yourself about the warming-pan." The 
warming-pan! Why, gentlemen, who (/o« trouble 
himself about a warming-pan? Why is Mrs. 
Bardell so earnestly entreated not to agitate her- 
self about this warming-pan, unless (as is no doubt 
the case) it is a mere cover for hidden fire — a 
mere substitute for some endearing word or prom- 
ise, agreeably to a preconcerted system of cor- 
respondence, artfully contrived by Pickwick with 
a view to his contemplated desertion ? And what 
does this allusion to the slow coach mean ? For 
aught I know it may be a reference to Pickwick 
himself, who has most unquestionably been a 
criminally slow coach during the whole of this 



492 



WJT AND WISDOM. 



transaction, but whose speed will now be very un- 
expectedly accelerated, and whose wheels, gentle- 
men, as he will find to his cost, will very soon be 
greased by you ! 

But enough of this, gentlemen. It is difficult to 
smile with an achiuL; heart. My client's hopes and 
prosjjects are ruineJ, and it is no figure of speech 
to say that her occupation is gone, indeed. The 
bill is down; but there is no tenant! Eligible 
single gentlemen pass and repass; but there is no 
invitation for them to inquire within, or without ! 
All is gloom and silence in the house : even the 
voice of the child is hushed ; his infant sports are 
disregarded when his mother weeps. 

But Pickwick, gentlemen, Pickwick, the ruth- 
less destroyer of this domestic oasis in the desert 
of Gosvvell street — Pickwick, who has choked up 
the well and thrown ashes on the sward — Pick- 
wick who comes before you to-day with his heart- 
less tomato sauce and warming-pans — Pickwick 
still rears his heaJ with unblushing effrontery, and 
gazes without a sigh on the ruin he has made ! 
Damages, gentlemen, heavy damages, is the only 
punishment with which you can visit him — the 
only recompense you can award to my client ! 
And for those damages she now appeals to an en- 
lightened, a high-minded, a right-feeling, a con- 
scientious, a dispassionate, a sympathizing, a con- 
templative jury of her civilized countrymen ! 

Charles Dickens. 

THE AMOROUS GOLD FISH. 

A GOLD fisli swam in a big glass bowl — • 
As dear little gold fish do — 
But she loved with the whole of her heart 
and soul 
An officer brave from the ocean wave. 

And she thought that he loved her too ! 
Her small inside he daily fed 
With crumbs of the best digestive bread — 
"This kind attention ])roves," said she, 
" How exceeding fond he is of me !" 

And she thought " Its fit — fit — fitter. 
He should love my glit — glit — glitter, 

Than his heart give away 

To the butterflies gay. 
Or the birds that twit — twit — twitter." 

She flashed her frock in the sunshine bright — 

That officer brave to charm. 
And he vowed she was quite a delightful sight ; 
So her spirits were gay — till he came one day 

With a girl on his stalwart arm. 
In whispers low they talked of love — 
He begged for a rose and a worn-out glove; 
But when they kissed a fond good-bye 
The poor little gold fish longed to die ! 

And she sobbed " It's bit — bit — bitter 
He should love this crit — crit — critter. 



When I thought he would wish 
For a nice little fish 
With a frock all glit — glit— glitter !" 

That charming girl for a time upset 

The officer brave and gay. 
And his sad little pet he contrived to forget ; 
For with never a crumb did he chance to come— • 

So the gold fish pined away ! 
Until at last some careless soul 
With a smash knocked over the big glass bowl, 
And there on t'le carpet — dead and cold — 
Lay the poor little fish in her Irock of gold ! 

But her fate so bit — bit — bitter 
Is a story fit — fit — fitter 

For a sad little sigh 

And a tear in the eye 
Than a thoughtless tit — tit — titter ! 

Harry Greenbank. 

SPRING UNDER DIFFICULTIES. 

THE wintry forests are gone : — 
A bluebird pipes his sweet, enchanting 
note. 
(Here comes the butcher with his bill ; go, pawn 
My overcoat I) 

Now slips the bloom from winter's rude control. 
The thrush is building, by the hedges hid. 

(Upon my soul I paid that bill for coal — 
Or thought I did !) 

Now brawls the brook, and many a violet 

Flaunts its blue beauty in the ice-king's track. 

(Here comes the grocer. Darling, can you get 
Teii dollars on that sacque ?) 

The heyday of the resurrected year 

When the leaf feels the sculpturing sap aflow. 

(I never paid that plumber's bill ! My dear, 
Your shawl will have to go !) 

Season of song by river, field and lake ; 

Lo ! how the trees have donned their vernal 
suits ! 
(Another bill ! Do ask him if he'll take 

My rubber boots !) 

WHEN MARIA JANE IS MAYOR. 

WHEN Maria Jane's elected to the mayor- 
alty chair. 
There'll be many wrongs corrected that 
are now apparent there. 
The sidewalks will be carpeted, the streets swept 

thrice a day. 
The alleys be as fragrant as fields of new-mown 
hay. 

What with parties and receptions, and occasionally 

a ball. 
There will be a transformation around the City 

Hall. 



W/T AND WISDOM. 



493 



And each ward in the city will be lepresented then 
By lovely alderuomen and not horrid aldermen. 

When Maria Jane is mayor none but ladies will, 

of course, 
Be appointed members of the city police force, 
And m their bloomer uniforms they'll look so very 

sweet. 
The gang to be arrested will consider it a treat. 

The stores will be compelled to have a bargain sale 

each day, 
And for chewing-gum and soda you will not be 

asked to pay. 
Oh, great reforms will be projected, all the wrongs 

will be corrected 
When Maria Jane's elected to the mayoralty chair. 

William West. 



The way they mend a buttonhole ! 
And how the needle they control ! 
I love the girl with all my soul 
Who sews my buttons on ! 

The useful and the sweet are mine, 
All folded in those hands divine ! 
What need that I sliould now repine? 

A garment whole I don ! 
So let the poets pen their rhyme. 
And praise the girls of every clime, 
I her extol who all the time 

Doth sew my buttons on ! 



w 



SORROWS OF WERTHER. 

ERTHER had a love for Charlotte 
Such as words could never utter ; 

Would you know how first he met her? 
She was cutting bread and butter. 




THE GIRL FOR ME. 

THE poets sing of Hebes fair, 
Of bonnie lassies debonnaire ; 
They sonnets ]ien to golden hair, 
Which all delight to con : 
The darlings of sweet poesy 
I doubt not all these charmers be, 
But that dear woman give to me 
Who sews my buttons on ! 

I once would muse before the fire, 
My trousers held by bits of wire ; 
I know not wh\ — I don't inquire — 

These I was forced to don ; 
But life has now no sad regret, 
I bless my little useful pet, 
The darlingest T ever met, 

Who sews my buttons on ! 

Those little hands, so small and white, 
So true and nimble, to my sight 
Are evermore a pure delight, 
A joy to dwell upon ! 



Charlotte was a married lady. 
And a moral man was Werther, 

And for all the wealth of Indies 
Would do nothing for to hurt her. 

So he sighed and pined and ogled, 
And his passion boiled and bubbled, 

Till he blew his silly brains out, 
And no more was by it troubled. 

Charlotte, having seen his body 

Borne before her on a shutter. 
Like a well-conducted person, 

Went on cutting bread and butter. 

W. M. Thackeray. 

SWALLOWING A FLY. 

A COUNTRY meeting-house. A midsummer 
Sabbath. We had come to the middle of 
our sermon, when a large fly, taking advan- 
tage of the opened mouth of the speaker, darted 
into our throat. The crisis was upon us. Shall we 
cough and eject this impertinent intruder, or let 



494 



WIT AND WISDOM. 



him silently have his way ? VVe had no precedent 
to guide us. We knew not what the fathers of the 
church did in like circumstances, or the mothers 
either. 

We saw the unfairness of taking advantage of a 
fly in such straitened circumstances. It may have 
been a blind fly, and not have known where it was 
going. It may have been a scientific fly, and only 
experimenting with air currents. It may have 
been a reckless fly, doing what he soon would be 
sorry for; or a young fly, and gone a-sailing on 
Sunday without his mother's consent. 

Besides this, we are not fond of flies prepared 
in that way. We have, no doubt, often taken them 
preserved in blackberry jam. But fly in the raw 
was a diet from which we recoiled. We would 
have preferred it roasted, or fried, or panned, or 
baked, and then to have chosen our favorite part, 
the upper joint, and a little of the breast, if you 
please, sir. But, no ; it was wings, proboscis, feet, 
poisers. There was no choice ; it was all, or none. 

We foresaw the excitement and disturbance we 
would make, and the proliability of losing our 
thread of discourse, if we undertook a series of 
coughs, chokings, and expectorations; and that, 
after all our efforts, we might be unsuccessful, and 
end the affray with a fly's wing on our lip, and a 
leg in the windpipe. 

We concluded to take down the nuisance. We 
rallied all our energies. It was the most animated 
passage in all our discourse. We were not at all 
hungry for anything, much less for such hastily 
prepared viands. The fly evidently wanted to 
back out. " No !" we said within ourselves. " Too 
late to retreat. You are in for it now !" We ad- 
dressed it in the words of Noah to the orangoutang, 
as it was about entering the ark, and lingered too 
long at the door, "Go in, sir — go in !" 

And so we conquered, giving a warning to flies 
and men that it is easier to get into trouble than 
to get out again. We have never mentioned the 
above circumstance before; we felt it a delicate 
subject. But all the fly's friends are dead, and we 
can slander it as much as we please, and there is 
no danger now. 

You acknowledge that we did the wisest thing 
that could be done ; and yet how many ])eople 
spend their time in elaborate, and long-continued, 
and convulsive ejection of flies which they ought 
to swallow and have done with. 

Your husband's thoughtlessness is an exceeding 
annoyance. He is a good man, but he is careless 
about where he throws his slippers. On the top 
of one of your best parlor books he has laid a plug 
of pig-tail tobacco. For fifteen years you have 
lectured him about leaving the newspaper on the 
floor. Do not let such little things interfere with 
your domestic peace. Better swallow the fly, and 
have done with it. 

It never pays to hunt a fly. You clutch at him. 



You sweep your hand convulsively through the air. 
You wait till he alights on your face, and then give 
a fierce slap on the place where he was. You slyly 
wait till he crawls up you sleeve, and then give a 
violent crush to the folds of your coat, to find out 
that it \v2s a different fly from the one you were 
searching after. That one sits laughing at your 
vexation from the tip of your nose. 

Apothecaries advertise insect exterminators; Ijut 
if in summer-time we set a glass to catch flies, for 
every one we kill there are twelve coroners called 
to sit as jury of inquest ; and no sooner does one 
disappear under our fell pursuit, than all its broth- 
ers, sisters, nephews, nieces, and second cousins, 
come out to see what in the world is the matter. 
Oh man ! go on with your life work ! If, opening 
your mouth to say the thing that ought to be said, 
a fly dart in, swallow it ! 

The current of your happiness is often choked 
up by trifles. The want of more pantry room, the 
need of an additional closet, the smallness of the 
bread-tray, the defet:tiveness of the range, the lack 
of draught in a furnace, a crack in the sauce-j)an, 
are flies in the throat. Open your mouth, shut 
your eyes, and gulp down the annoyances. 

Had we stopped on the aforesaid day to kill the 
insect, at the same time we would have killed our 
sermon. 

Our every life is a sermon. Our birth is the text 
from which we start. Youth is the introduction to 
the discourse. During our manhood we lay down 
a few propositions and prove them. Some of the 
passages are dull, and some sprightly. Then come 
inferences and apjilications. At seventy years we 
say " Fifthly and lastly." The Doxology is sung. 
The benediction is pronounced. The book closed. 
It is getting cold. Frost on the window pane. 
Audience gone. Shut up the church. Sexton 
goes home with the key on his shoulder. 

T. De Witt Talmage. 



w 



THE NEXT STEP. 

C have boiled the hydrant water, 

We have sterilized the milk. 
We have strained the prowling microbe 
Through the finest kind of silk. 
We have bought and we have borrowed 

Every patent health device, 
And at last the doctor tells us 
That we've got to boil the ice. 

SAMBO'S PHILOSOPHY. 

FOLKS ain't got no right to censuah othah 
folks about dey habits ; 
Him dat giv' de squir'ls de bushtail made de 
bobtails fu de rabbits. 
Him dat built de gread big mountains hollered 

out de little valleys. 
Him dat made de streets an' driveways wasn't 
'shamed to make de alleys. 



Wn AND WISDOM. 



495 



We is all constructed diff'ent, d'ain't no two of us 

de same ; 
We cain't he'p ouah likes an' dislikes, ef we'se 

bad we ain't to blame. 
Ef we'se good, we needn't show off, 'case you bet 

it ain't ouah doin', 
We gits into cu'ttain channels dat we jes' cain't 

he'p pu'suin'. 

But we all fits into places dat no othah ones could 

fill. 
An' we does the things we has to, big er little, 

good er ill. 
John cain't tek de place o' Henry, Su an' Sally 

ain't alike ; 
Bass ain't nothin' like a sukah, chub ain't nothin' 

like a pike. 

Samuel Lawrence Dunbar. 

AMERICAN ARISTOCRACY. 

OF all the notable things on earth, 
The queerest one is pride of birth 
Among our "fierce democracy!" 
A bridge across a hundred years. 
Without a prop to save it from sneers, 
Not even a couple of rotten peers — 
A thing for laughter, fleers, and jeers, 
Is American aristocracy ! 

English and Irish, French and Spanish, 
Germans, Italians, Dutch and Danish, 
Crossing their veins until they vanish 

In one conglomeration ! 
So subtle a tangle of blood, indeed, 
No Heraldry Harvey will ever succeed 

In finding the circulation. 

Depend upon it, my snobbish friend, 
Your family thread you can't ascend, 
Without good reason to apprehend 
You may find it waxed, at the farther end, 

By some plebeian vocation ! 
Or, worse than that, your boasted line 
May end in a loop of stronger twine. 

That plagued some worthy relation ! 

John G. Saxe. 

CANDACE'S OPINIONS. 

U T INTEND," said Mr. Marvyn, "to make 
I the same offer to your husband, when he 
-*■ returns from work to-night." 

" Laus, Mass'r — why, Cato. he'll do jes' as I do 
— dere a' n't no kind o' needo'askin' him.' Course 
he will." 

A smile passed round the circle, because between 
Candace and her husband there existed one of 
those whimsical contrasts which one sometimes 
sees in married life. Cato was a small-built, thin, 
softly-spoken negro, addicted to a gentle chronic 
cough ; and, though a faithfiil and skillful servant, 
seemed, in relation to his better half, much like a 



hill of potatoes under a spreading apple-tree. Can- 
dace held to him with a vehement and patronizing 
fondness, so devoid of conjugal reverence as to 
excite the comments of her friends. 

"You must remember, Candace," said a good 
deacon to her one day, when she was ordering him 
about at a catechizing, " you ought to give honor 
to your husband; the wife is the weaker vessel." 

"/ de weaker vessel?" said Candace, looking 
down from the tower of her ample corpulence on 
the small, quiet man whom she had been fledging 
with the ample folds of a worsted comforter, out 
of which his little head and shining bead-eyes 
looked, much like a blackbird in a nest — "7 de 
weaker vassel ! Umph !" 

A whole woman's-rights' convention could not 
have expressed more in a day than was given in 
that single look and word. Candace considered a 
husband as a thing to be taken care of— a rather 
inconsequent and somewhat troublesome species of 
pet, to be humored, nursed, fed, clothed, and guided 
in the way that he was to go — an animal that was 
always losing off buttons, catching colds, wearing 
his best coat every day, and getting on his Sunday 
hat in a surreptitious manner for week-day occa- 
sions ; but she often condescended to express it as 
her opinion that he was a blessing, and that she 
didn't know what she'd do if it wasn't for Cato. She 
sometimes was heard expressing herself very ener- 
getically in disapprobation of the conduct of one 
of her sable friends, named Jinny Stiles, who, after 
being presented with her own freedom, worked 
several years to buy that of her husband, but be- 
came afterwards so disgusted with her acquisition, 
that she declared she would " neber buy anoder 
nigger." 

"Now, Jinny don't know what she's talkin' 
about," she would say. " S'pose he does cough 
and keep her awake nights, and take a little too 
much sometimes, a' n't he better' n no husband at 
all? A body wouldn't seem to hab nufiin to lib 
for, ef dey hadn't an old man to look arter. Men 
is nate'lly foolish about some tings — but dey's good 
deal better'n nuffin." 

And Candace, after this condescending remark, 
would lift off with one hand a brass kettle in which 
poor Cato might have been drowned, and fly 
across the kitchen with it as if it were a feather. 
Harriet Beecher Stowe. 

DE OLE PLANTATION MULE. 

AWERRY funny feller is de ole plantation 
mule ; 
An' nobody' 11 play wid him unless he is a 
fool. 
De bestest ting to do w'en you meditates about 

him, 
Is to kinder sorter calkerlate you'll get along 
widout him. 



496 



IVIT AND WISDOM. 



Wen you try to 'proach dat mule from de front 

endwise, 
He look as meek as Moses, but his looks is full ob 

lies ; 
He doesn't move a muscle, he doesn't even wink ; 
An' you say his dispersition's better'n people tink. 

He Stan' so still that you s'pose he is a monument 

of grace ; 
An' you almos' see a 'nevolent expression on his 

face ; 
But dat 'nevolent expression is de mask dat's allers 

worn ; 
For ole Satan is behin' it, jest as sure as you is 

born. 

Den you cosset him a little, an' you ])at his other 

end, 
An' you has a reverlation dat he aint so much 

your friend ; 
You has made a big mistake ; but before de heart 

repents. 
You is histed werry sudden to de odder side de 

fence^ 

Well, you feel like you'd been standin' on de 

locomotive track 
An' de engine come an' hit you in de middle ob 

de back ; 
You don' know wat has happened, you can 

scarcely cotch your breff ; 
But you tink you've made de 'quaintance ob a 

werry vi'lent deff. 

Now a sin in de soul is precisely like de mule ; 

An' nobody' 11 play wid it, unless he is a fool. 

It looks so mitey inncrcent ; but honey, dear, be- 
ware ! 

For although de kick is hidden, de kick is allers 
there. 

THE RAILROAD CROSSING. 

I CAN'T tell you much about the thing, 'twas 
done so powerful quick ; 
But 'pears to me I got a most outlandish 
heavy lick; 
It broke my leg, and tore my skulp, and jerked 

my arm most out. 
But take a seat: I'll try and tell just how it kem 
about. 

You see, I'd started down to town with that 'ere 

team of mine, 
A-haulin' down a load o' corn to Ebenezer Kline, 
An' drivin' slow; for, just about a day or two 

before, 
The off horse run a splinter in his foot, and made 

it sore. 

You know the railroad cuts across the road at 

Martin's Hole; 
Well, thar I seed a great big sigu, raised high 

upon a pole ; 



I thought I'd stop and read the thing, and find 

out what it said. 
And so I stopped the bosses on the railroad track, 

and read. 

I ain't no scholar, rekollect, and so I had to 

spell, 
I started kinder cautious like, with R-A-I and L; 
And that spelt " rail " as clear as mud ; R-O-A-D 

was "road," 
I lumped 'em: " railroad " was the word, and that 

'ere much I knowed. 

C-R-0 and double S, with I-N-G to boot, 

Made "crossing" just as plain as Noah Webster 

dared to do 't. 
"Railroad crossing" good enough! L double 

0-K "look;" 
And I was lookin' all the time, and spellin' like a 

book. 

0-U-T spelt "out" jest right ; and there it was, 

"look out," 
I's kinder cur'us, like, to know jest what 'twas all 

about ; 
F-O-R and T-H-E ; 'twas then "look out for 

the—" 
And then I tried the next word ; it commenced 

with E-N-G. 
I'd got that fur, when suddintly there came an 

awful whack ; 
A thousand fiery thunderbolts just scooped me off 

the track ; 
The bosses went to Davy Jones, the wagon went 

to smash. 
And I was histed seven yards above the tallest 

ash. 

I did't come to life ag'in fur 'bout a day or 
two; 

But, though I'm crippled up a heap, I sorter strug- 
gled trough. 

It ain't the pain, nor 'tain't the loss o' that 'ere 
team of mine; 

But, stranger, how I'd like to know the rest of that 
'ere sign ! 

Hezekiah Strong. 

THE PUNKIN FROST. 

WHEN the frost is on the punkin and the 
fodder's in the sliock. 
And you hear the kyouck and gobble 
of the struttin' turkey cock, 
And the clackin of the guineas, and the cluckin' 

of the hens, 
And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the 

fence, 
Oh, it's then's the time a feller is a-feehn' at his 

best, 
With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of 
gracious rest, 



WIT AND WISDOM. 



497 



As he leaves the house bare-headed, and goes out 

to feed the stock, 
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's 

in the shock. 

They's sumphin kind o' hearty-like about the 

atmosphere, 
When the heat of summer's over, and the coolin' 

fall is here — 
Of course we miss the flowers and the blossoms on 

the trees, 
And the mumble of the hummin'-birds, and buz- 

zin' of the bees : 
But the air's so appetizin', and the landscape 

through the haze 
Of a crisp and sunny mornin' of the early autumn 

days 
Is a picture that no painter has the colorin' to 

mock ; 
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's 

in the shock. 

The husky, rusty rustle of the tossels of the corn, 
And the raspin' of tiie tangled leaves, as golden as 

the morn ; 
The stubble in the furries, kind o' lonesome-like, 

but still 
A-preachin' sermons to us of the barns they growed 

to fill. 
The straw stack in the medder, and the reaper in 

the shed ; 
The hosses in their stalls below, the clover over- 
head ; 
Oh, it sets my heart a-clickin' like the tickin' of 

a clock. 
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's 

in the shock. 

B. F. Johnson. 

PAT'S REPLY. 

AS Pat, an odd joker, and Yankee more sly. 
Once riding together, a gallows passed by ; 
Said the Yankee to Pat, " If I don't make 
too free. 
Give that gallows its due, and pray where would 

you be ?" 
"Why, honey," said Pat, "faith, that's easily 

known — 
I'd be riding to town by m\self all alone." 

PRACTICAL PHILOSOPHY. 

< i "f "1 TALKIN' out dis mawin to behole de 

\l\J bewtiful in natur'," began Presi- 

^ ' dent Gardner as he arose, "my 

mind recollected dat I had been 

axed to spain de true secret o' happiness. In de 

fust place, when am a man happy? Is it when he 

has lots o' money — when he has fixed his enemy — 

when he travels an' sees de world — when he has a 

good home ? An' how many grades of happiness 

32 



kin you count up? An' what am happiness, when 
you boil it down? 

" Happiness, as an old black man like me de- 
fines it," continued Brother Gardner, "am not 
sto' cloze, a fat wallet, a big house an' ice cream 
ebery night afore you go to bed. When I looked 
about me arter a wife I didn't look fur anything 
gaudy. I knew I mus' ma'ry a black woman or 
none at all I knew she'd be away off on her 
Greek an' Latin, an so when I got my ole woman 
I war' not a bit dis'pinted. She am as good as I 
am, an' what more can I ask ? When I war' free 
to start out I reasoned dat I mus' job 'round at dis 
an' dat, kase I had no trade. I nebber counted 
on havin' more dan a cord of wood an' five bush- 
els of 'taters ahead, an' I nebber have had. I 
knew I'd have to live in a small house, own a 
cheap dog, live an' dress plainly, an' keep dis 
black skin to de grave, an' it has all happened 
jist as I 'spected. I am happy kase I havn't 
'spected too much. I am happy kase I doan't 
figger on what I havn't got. I am happy kase I 
reason dat de weather can't alius be fa'r, money 
can't alius be plenty, good health can't alius last, 
an' yer bes' fr'ends can't alius be counted on. If 
dar' am any secret of happiness I believe it am dis, 
an' we will now begin de reg'lar biziness of de oc- 
cashun." 

MARK TWAIN'S WATCH. 

MY beautiful new watch had run eighteen 
months without losing or gaining, and 
without breaking any part of its machin- 
ery, or stopping. I bad come to believe it infal- 
lible in its judgments about the time of day, and to 
consider its constitution and its anatomy imperish- 
able. But at last, one night, I let it run down. 
I grieved about it as if it were a recognized mes- 
senger and forerunner of calamity. But by-and- 
by I cheered up, set the watch by guess, and com- 
manded my bodings and superstitions to depart. 
Next day I stepped into the chief jeweler's to set 
it by the exact time, and the head of the establish- 
ment took it out of my hand and proceeded to set 
it for me. Then he said, " She is four minutes 
slow — regulator wants pushing up." I tried to 
stop him — tried to make him understand that the 
watch kept perfect time. 

But no ; all this human cabbage could see was 
that the watch was four minutes slow, and the 
regulator fnust be ])ushed up a little ; and so, while 
I danced around him in anguish, and implored 
him to let the watch alone, he calmly and cruelly 
did the shameful deed. My watch began to gain. 
It gained faster and faster day by day. Within 
the week it sickened to a raging fever, and its 
pulse went up to a hundred and fifty in the shade. 
At the end of two months it had left all the time- 
pieces of the town far in the rear, and was a frac- 
tion over thirteen days ahead of the almanac. 



498 



W/T AND WISDOM. 



It was away into Novembei enjoying the snow, 
while the October leaves were still turning. It 
hurried up house rent, bills payable, and such 
things, in such a ruinous way that I could not 
abide it. I took it to the watchmaker to be regu- 
lated. He asked me if 1 had ever had it repaired. 
I said no, it had never needed any repairing. He 
looked a look of vicious happiness and eagerly 
pried the watch open, and then put a small dice 
box into his eye and peered into its machinery. 
He said it wanted cleaning and oiling, besides 
regulating — come in a week. 

After being cleaned, and oiled, and regulated, 
my watch slowed down to that degree that it ticked 
like a tolling bill. I began to be 1-ft by trains, I 
failed all appointments, I got to missing my din- 
ner ; my watch strung out three days' grace to four 
and let me go to protest ; 1 gradually drifted back 
into yesterday, then day before, then into last 
week, and by-and-by the comprehension came upon 
me that all solitary and alone I was lingering along 
in week before last, and the world was out of sight. 
I seemed to detect in myself a sort of sneaking 
fellow-feeling for the mummy in the museum, and 
a desire to swop news with him. 

I went to a watchmaker again. He took the 
watch all to pieces while I waited, and then said 
the barrel was "swelled." He said he could 
reduce it in three days. After this the watch 
averaged well, but nothing more. For half a day 
it would go like the very mischief, and keep up 
such a barking and wheezing and whooping and 
sneezing and snorting, that I could not hear my- 
self think for the disturbance ; and as long as it 
held out there was not a watch in the land that 
stood any chance against it. But the rest of the 
day it would keep on slowing dt)wn and fooling 
along until all the clocks it had left behind caught 
up again. So at last, at the end of twenty-four 
hours, it would trot up to the judges' stand all 
right and just in time. It would show a fair and 
square average, and no man could say it had done 
more or less than its duty. 

But a correct average is only a mild virtue in a 
watch and I took this instrument to another watch- 
maker. He said the kingbolt was broken. I said 
I was glad it was nothing more serious. To tell 
the plain truth, I had no idea what the kingbolt 
was, but I did not choose to appear ignorant to a 
stranger. He repaired the kingbolt, but what the 
watch gained in one way it lost in another. It 
would run awhile and then stop awhile, and then 
run awhile again, and so on, using its own discre- 
tion about the intervals. And every time it went 
off it kicked back like a musket. I padded my 
breast for a few days, but finally took the watch to 
another watchmaker. He picked it all to pieces, 
and turned the ruin over and over under his glass ; 
and then he said there appeared to be something 
the matter with the hair-trigger. 



He fi-\ed it, and gave it a fresh start. It did 
well now, except that always at ten minutes to ten 
the hands would shut together like a pair of scis- 
sors, and from that time forth they would travel 
together. The oldest man in the world could not 
make out the time of day by such a watch, and so 
I went again to have the thing repaired. This 
person said that the crystal had got bent, and that 
the mainspring was not straight. He also remarked 
that ]5art of the works needed half-soling. He 
made these things all right, and then my time- 
piece performed unexceptionablV; save that now 
and then she would reel off the next twenty-four 
hours in six or seven minutes, and then stop with 
a bang. 

I went with a heavy heart to one more watch- 
maker, and looked on while he took her to pieces. 
1 hen 1 prejjared to cross-question him rigidly, for 
this thing was getting serious. The watch had cost 
two hundred dollars originally, and I seemed to 
have paid out two or three thousand for repairs. 
While 1 waited and looked on I presently recog- 
nized in this watchmaker an old acquaintance — a 
steamboat engineer of other days, and not a good 
engineer either. He examined all the parts care- 
fully, just as the other watchmakers had done, and 
then delivered his verdict with the same confidence 
of manner. 

He said — "She makes too much steam — you 
want to hang the monkey-wrench on the safety- 
valve !"' 

I floored him on the spot. 

My uncle William (now deceased, alas!) used to 
say that a good horse was a good horse until it had 
run away once, and that a good watch was a good 
watch until the repairers got a chance at it. 

Samuel L. Clemens. 

DEBORAH LEE. 

A PARODY. 

'I ' I ""IS a dozen or so of years ago, 

I Somewhere in the West countree, 
■*■ That a nice girl lived, as ye Hoosiers know 
By the name of Deborah Lee ; 
Her sister was loved by Edgar Poe, 
But Deborah by me. 

Now I was green, and she was green, 

As a summer's squash might be ; 
And we loved as warmly as other folks — 

I and my Deborah Lee — 
With a love that the lasses of Hoosierdom 

Coveted her and me. 

But somehow it happened a long time ago. 

In the aguish West countree. 
That a chill March morning gave the shakes 

To my beautiful Deborah Lee ; 



WIT AND WISDOM. 



499 



And the grim steam-doctor (drat him !) came, 

And bore her away from me — 
The doctor and death, old partners they — 

In the aguish countree. 

The angels wanted her in heaven 

(But they never asked for me), 
And that is the reason, I rather guess, 

In the aguish West countree. 
That the cold March wind, and the doctor, and 
death. 

Took off my Deborah Lee — 

My beautiful Deborah Lee — 
From the warm sunshine and the opening flower. 

And bore her away from me. 

Our love was as strong as a six-horse team, 

Or the love of folks older than we, 

Or possibly wiser than we ; 
But death, with the aid of doctor and steam. 

Was rather too many for me ; 
He closed the peepers and silenced the breath 

Of my sweetheart Deborah Lee, 
And her form lies cold in the prairie mould, 

Silent and cold — ah me ! 

The foot of the hunter shall press her grave. 

And the prairie's sweet wild flowers 
In their odorous beauty around it wave 

Through all the sunny hours — 

The still, bright summer hours; 
And the birds shall sing in the tufted grass, 

x\nd the nectar-laden bee. 
With his dreamy hum, on his gauze wings pass, — 

She wakes no more to me ; 

Ah ! nevermore to me ! 
Though the wild birds sing and the wild flowers 
spring, 

She wakes no more to me. 

Yet oft in the hush of the dim, still night, 

A vision of beauty I see 
Gliding soft to my bedside, — a phantom of light. 

Dear, beautiful Deborah Lee — 

My bride that was to be ; 
And I wake to mourn that the doctor, and death, 
And the cold March wind, should stop the breath 

Of my darling Deborah Lee — 

Adorable Deborah Lee — 
That angels should want her up in heaven 

Before they wanted me. 

WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS. 

FROM "THE BIGLOW PAPERS." 

UVENER B. is a sensible man ; 

He stays to his home an' looks arter his 
folks ; 
He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can. 
An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes ; — 
But John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. 



G 



My ! ain't it terrible? Wut shall we du ? 

Wecan't never choose him o' course, — thet'sflat; 
Guess we shall hev to come round, (don't you?) 
An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that ; 
Fer John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. 

Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man : 

He's ben on all sides thet give places or pelf; 
But consistency still wuz a part of his plan, — 
He's ben true to <?//if party, — an' thet is himself; — 
So John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. 

We were gittin' on nicely up here to our village. 

With good old idees o' wut's right an' wut aint, 
We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pil- 
lage, 
An' thet eppyletts worn't the best mark of a 
saint ; 

But John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez this kind o' thing's an exploded idee. 

The side of our country must oilers be took. 

An' President Polk, you know, /i<r is our country; 
An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a book 
Puts the i/eM to him, an' to us the/<fr contry ; 
An' John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T. 

Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts lies ; 

Sez they'renothin' onairth hut iest/ee,/mc',/um; 
And thet all this big talk of our destinies 
Is half ov it ign'ance, an' t'other half rum: 
But John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez it ain't no sech thing; an', of course, so 
must we. 

Parson Wilbur sez /le never heerd in his life 
Thet th' Apostles rigged out in their swaller-tail 
coats, 
An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife. 
To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em 
votes . 

But John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez they didn't know everythin' down in 
Judee. 

Wal, it's a marcy we've gut folks to tell us 

The rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, I 
vow, — 
God sends country lawyers, an' other wise fellers, 
To drive the world's team wen it gits in a slough ; 
Fer John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez the world' 11 go right, ef he hollers out Gee ! 
James Russell Lowell. 



500 



WIT AND WISDOM. 



WAIL OF THE UNAPPRECIATED. 

THE poets all have sung their songs in tones 
of loving praise, 
Of fightin' men, and all thatset, for count- 
less years and days, 
Until I think it's almost time to make Pegasus 

prance 
In ringin' in some word for them as never had a 
chance. 

I know a dozen fellers now, that somehow staid 

behind. 
And why, no one could never tell, for they was 

men of mind, . 
All brainy men and statesmen, too, as modern 

statesmen go. 
But, somehow, in this crooked world, they've 

never had no show. 

There's old Jim Potts, who ought to be in Con- 
gress right to-day. 

He han't no head for business — could never make 
it pay ; 

But when it comes to tariff, or internal revenue — 

Now what old Jim he doesn't know ain't worth a- 
lookin' through. 

But pore old Jim (a brainy man, as I have said 

before), 
And several more (includin' me) set round the 

grocery store, 
And there we run the coimtry, accordin' to our 

lights. 
And we figger how the workingman is loosin' all 

his rights. 

But yet, with all our good, hard sense, some loud 

and windy cuss 
Can put a standin' collar on and raise a little 

fuss, 
And everybody flocks to him and lauds him to 

the sky. 
And leaves us men of solid worth plums stranded 

high and dry. 

ASK AND HAVE. 



ii /^"^H, 'tis time I shouh 
C I Sweet Mary," 

^^— ^ "Oh, don't talk I 



aid talk to your mother, 
says I ; 

to my mother," says 
Mary, 
Beginning to cry : 
" For my mother says men are deceivers, 

And never, I know, will consent ; 
She says girls in a hurry wlio marry. 
At leisure repent." 

" Then, suppose I would talk to your father, 

Sweet Mary," says I ; 
" Oh, don't talk to my father," says Mary, 

Beginning to cry : 



"For my father, he loves me so dearly. 

He'll never consent I should go — 
If you talk to my father," says Mary, 
"He'll surely say 'No.'" 

'■ Then how shall I get you, my jewel ? 

Sweet Mary," says I ; 
" If your father and mother's so cruel, 

Most surely I'll die !" 
" Oh, never say die, dear," says Mary ; 

"A way now to save you I see: 
Since my parents are both so contrary — 

You'd better ask me." 

Samuel Lover. 

THE BEAUTY AND THE BEE. 

FANNY, arrayed in the bloom of her beauty, 
Stood at the mirror and toyed with her 
hair. 
Viewing her charms, till she felt it a duty 
To own that like Fanny no woman was fair. 
A bee from the garden — oh, what could mislead 
him? — 
Strayed through the lattice new dainties to seek, 
And lighting on Fanny, too busy to heed him, 
Stung the sweet maid on her delicate cheek. 

Smarting with pain, round the chamber she sought 
him, 
Tears in her eyes, and revenge in her heart, 
And angrily cried, when at List she had caught 
him, 
"Die for the deed, little wretch that thou 
art !" 
Stooping to crush him, the hapless offender 

Prayed her for mercy — to hear and forgive : 
" Oh, spare me!" he cried, "by those eyes in 
their splendor ; 
" Oh, pity my fault, and allow me to live ! 

" Am I to blame that your cheeks are like roses. 

Whose hues all the pride of the garden eclipse? 
Lilies are hid in your mouth when It closes, 

.•\nd odors of .4raby breathe from your lips." 
Sweet Fanny relented : " 'Twere cruel to hurt you ; 

Small is the fault, pretty bee, you deplore ; 
And e en were it greater, forgiveness is virtue ; 

Go forth and be happy — I blame you no more." 

Charles Mackay. 

WHY BIDDY AND PAT MARRIED. 

WHY did you marry him, Biddy? 
Why did you take Pat for your 
spouse ? 
Sure, he's neither purty nor witty. 

And his hair is as red as a cow's ! 
You might had your pick had you waited. 

You'd done a dale better with Tim ; 
And Phelim O'Toole was expectin' — 
You couldn't do better nor him. 



"O, 



W/T AND WISDOM. 



501 



I 



You talk of us young people courtin' — 
Pray tell how your courtin' began, 

When you were a widdy woman, 
And he was a widdy man." 

"Tim and Pat, Miss, you see, was acquainted, 

Before they came over the sea. 
When Pat was a-courtin' Norah, 

And Tim was a-courtin' me. 
She did not know much, the poor Norah, 

Nor, for that matter, neither did Pat ; 
He had not the instinct of some one, 

But no one had then told him that ; 
But he soon found it out for himself, 

For life's at best's but a span — 
When I was a widdy woman. 

And he was a widdy man. 

"I helped him to take care of Norah, 

And when he compared her with me. 
He saw, as he whispered one evening. 

What a woman one woman could be, 
She went out like tlie snuff of a candle; 

Then the sickness seized upon Tim, 
And we watched by his bedside together — 

It was such a comfort to him. 
I was not alone in my weeping, 

Our tears in the same channel ran — 
For I was a widdy woman, 

And he was a widdy man. 

"We had both had our troubles, mavourneen, 

Though neither, perhaps, was to blame; 
And we both knew by this what we wanted, 

And we were willing to pay for the same. 
We knew what it was to be married, 

And before the long twelvemonth had flown, 
We had made up our minds it was better 

Not to live any longer alone ; 
We wasted no time shilly-shally. 

Like you. Miss, and Master Dan — 
For I was a widdy woman, 

And he was a widdy man." 

R. H. Stoddard. 

MY PAROQUET. 

HAD a parrot once, an ugly bird. 
With the most wicked eye I ever saw, 

Who though it comprehended all it heard, 
Would only say, ' ' O pshaw ! ' ' 



I did my best to teach it goodly lore ; 

I talked to it of medicine and law ; 
It looked as if it knew it all before. 

And simply said, " O phsaw !" 

I sat me down upon a dry-goods box 

To stuff sound doctrine down its empty craw. 

It would have none of matters orthodox. 
But yawned and said, "O pshaw!" 



I talked to it of politics, finance ; 

I hoped to teach the bird to say " Hurrah !" 
For my pet candidates when he'd a chance, 

He winked and chirped, "O pshaw!" 

I am for prohibition, warp and woof. 

But that bird stole hard cider through a straw, 

And then he teetered off at my reproof. 
And thickly said, "O pshaw!" 

Enraged, I hurled a bootjack, missed my aim 
And plugged a passing stranger in the jaw ; 

He wheeled to see from whence the missile came; 
The demon laughed "O pshaw!" 

I gave the creature to an old-maid aunt. 

And shook with parting grief its skinny claw. 
"He'll serve to cheer," she said, "my lonely 

hearth. 
For I'd not marry the best man on earth !" 
"O pshaw!" sneered Poll, "O psha-a-w !" 

EiMMA H. Webb. 

"BIRTHS. MRS. MEEK, OF A SON." 

MY name is Meek. I am, in fact, Mr. Meek. 
That son is mine, and Mrs. Meek's. When 
I saw the announcement in the Dines, I 
dropped the paper. I had put it in myself, and 
paid for it, but it looked so noble that it over- 
powered me. 

As soon as I could compose my feelings, I took 
the paper up to Mrs. Meek's bedside. " Maria 
Jane," said I (I allude to Mrs. Meek), "you are 
now a public character. " We read the review of 
our child, several times, with feelings of the 
strongest emotions ; and I sent the boy who 
cleaned the boots and shoes to the office for fifteen 
copies. No reduction was made on taking that 
quantity. 

I hope and believe I am a quiet man. I will go 
further. I know I am a quiet man. My constitu- 
tion is tremulous, my voice was never loud, and in 
point of stature, I have been from infancy small. 
I have the greatest respect for Mrs. Bigby, Maria 
Jane's mamma. She is a most remarkable woman. 
I honor Maria Jane's mamma. In my opinion she 
would storm a town, single handed, with a hearth- 
broom, and carry it. I have never known her to 
yield any point whatever to mortal man. She is 
calculated to terrify the stoutest heart. Still — but 
I will not anticipate. 

The first intimation I had of any preparations 
being in progress, on the part of Maria Jane's 
mamma, was one afternoon, several months ago. 
I came home earlier than usual from the office, 
and proceeding into the dining room, found an 
obstruction behind the door, which prevented it 
from opening freely. It was an obstruction of a 
soft nature. On looking in I found it to be a 
female. 



502 



IV/T AND WISDOM. 



The female in question stood in the corner 
behind the door, consuming sherry wine. From 
the nutty smell of that beverage pervading the 
apartment, I have no doubt she was consuming a 
second glassful. She wore a black bonnet of large 
dimensions and was copious in figure. The ex- 
pression of her countenance was severe and dis- 
contented. The words to which she gave utter- 
ance on seeing nie, were these, "Oh git along 
with you, Sir, if you please ; me and Mrs. Bigby 
don't want no male parties here?" That female 
was Mrs. Prodgit. 

I immsdiately withdrew, of course. I was 
rather hurt, but I made no remark. Whether it 
was that I showed a lowness of spirits after dinner, 
in consequence of feeling that I seemed to intrude, 
I cannot say. But Maria Jane's mamma said to 
me, on her retiring for the night, in a low, distinct 
voice, and with a look of reproach that completely 
subdued me, '• George Meek, Mrs. Prodgit is your 
wife's nurse !" 

I bear no ill-will toward Mrs. Prodgit. Is it 
likely that I, writing this with tears in my eyes, 
should be capable of deliberate animosity toward 
a female so essential to the welfare of Maria Jane? 
I am willing to admit that Fate may have been to 
blame, and not Mrs. Prodgit ; but it is undeniably 
true that the latter female brought desolation and 
devastation into my lowly dwelling. 

We were happy after her first appearance ; we 
were sometimes e.xceedingly so. But whenever 
the parlor door was opened, and "Mrs. Prodgit !" 
announced (and she was very often announced), 
misery ensued. I could not bear Mrs. Prodgit's 
look. I felt that I was far from wanted, and had 
no business to exist in Mrs. Prodgit's presence. 
Between Maria Jane's mamma and Mrs. Prodgit 
there was a dreadful, secret understanding — a dark 
mystery and conspiracy, pointing me out £is a 
being to be shunned. I appeared to have done 
something that was evil. Whenever Mrs. Prodgit 
called, after dinner, I retired to my dressing room 
— where the temperature is very low indeed, in the 
wintry time of the year — and sat looking at my 
frosty breath as it rose liefore me, and at my rack 
of boots; a serviceable article of furniture, but 
never, in my opinion, an exhilarating object. The 
length of the councils that were held with Mrs. 
Prodgit under these circumstances I will not 
attempt to describe. 

I pass, generally, over the period that intervened 
between the day when Mrs. Prodgit entered her 
protest against male parties, and the ever memor- 
able midnight when I brought her to my unobtru- 
sive home in a cab, with an extremely large box 
on the roof and a bundle, a bandbox and a basket 
between the driver's legs. I have no objection to 
Mrs. Prodgit (aided and abetted by Mrs. Bigby, 
who I never can forget is the parent of Maria 
Jane), taking entire possession of my unassuming 



establishment. In the recesses of my own breast 
the thought may linger that a man in possession 
cannot be so dreadful as a woman, and that woman 
Mrs. Prodgit ; but I ought to bear a good deal, 
and I hope I can and do. Huffing and snubbing 
prey upon my feelings, but I can bear them with- 
out complaint. They may tell in the long run; I 
may be hustled about, from post to pillar, beyond 
my strength; nevertheless, 1 wish to avoid giving 
rise to words in the family. 

Tlie voice of Nature, however, cried aloud in 
behalf of Augustus George, my infant son. It is 
for him that I wish to utter a few plaintive house- 
hold words. I am not at all angry ; I am mild — 
but miserable. 

I wish to know why, when my child, Augustus 
George, was expected in our circle, a provision of 
pins was made, as if the little stranger were a 
criminal who was to be put to the torture imme- 
diately on its arrival, instead of a holy babe? I 
wish to know why haste was made to stick those 
pins all over his innocent form, in every direction? 
I wish to be informed why light and air are 
excluded from Augustus George, like poisons? 
Why, I ask, is my unoffending infant so hedged 
into a basket-bedstead, with dimity and calico, 
with miniature sheets and blankets, that 1 can only 
hear him snuffle (and no wonder !) deep down 
under the pink hood of a little bathing machine, 
and can never peruse even so much of his linea- 
ments as his nose. 

Was I expected to be the father of a French 
roll, that the brushes of all nations were laid in, 
to rasp Augustus George? Am I to be told that 
his sensitive skin was ever intended by Nature to 
have rashes brought out upon it, by the premature 
and incessant use of those formidable little instru- 
ments? 

Is my son a nutmeg, that he is to be grated on 
the stiff edges of sharp frills? Am I the parent 
of a muslin boy, that his yielding surface is to be 
crimped and small-plaited? Or is my child com- 
posed of |)aper or of linen, that impressions of the 
finery getting-up art practiced by the laundress 
are to be printed off all over his soft arms and 
legs, as I constantly observe them ? The starch 
enters his soul ; who can wonder that he cries ? 

Was Augustus George intended to have limbs, 
or to be born a Torso? I presume that limbs 
were the intention, as they are the usual practice. 
Then, why are my poor child's limbs fettered and 
tied up? 

If the days of Egyptian mummies are past, how 
dare Mrs. Prodgit require, for the use of my son, 
an amount of flannel and linen that would carpet 
my humble roof? Do I wonder that she requires 
it ? No ! This morning, within an hour, I beheld 
this astonishing sight. I beheld my son — Augus- 
tus George — in Mrs. Prodgit's hands, and on Mrs. 
Prodgit's knee, being dressed. He was at the 



WIT AND WISDOM. 



503 



moment, comparatively speaking, in a state of 
nature ; having nothing on but an extremely short 
shirt, remarkably disproportionate to the length ot' 
his usual outer garments. 

Trailing from Mrs. Prodgit's lap on the floor, 
was a long narrow roller or bandage — I should say 
of several yards in extent. In this, I saw Mrs. 
Prodgit tightly roll the body of my unoffending 
infant, turning him over and over, now presenting 
his unconscious face upward, now the back of his 
bald head, until the unnatural feat was accom- 
plished, and the bandage secured by a pin, which 
I have every reason to believe entered the body of 
my only child. In this tourniquet he passes the 
present phase of his existence. Can 1 know it 
and smile? 

I feel I have been betrayed into expressing my- 
self warmly, but I feel deeply. Not for myself; 
but for Augustus George. 1 dare not interfere. 
Will any one? Will any publication? Any doc- 
tor? Any parent? Any body? I do not complain 
that Mrs. Prodgit (aided and abetted by Mrs. 
Bigby) entirely alienates Maria Jane's affections 
from me, and interposes an impassable barrier 
between us. I do not complain of being made of 
no account. I do not want to be of any account. 
But Augustus George is a production of Nature, 
and I claim that he shou'd be treated with some 
remote reference to Nature. In my opinion Mrs. 
Prodgit is, from first to last, a convention and a 
superstition. 

P. S. — Maria Jane's mamma boasts of her own 
knowledge of the subject, and says she brought up 
seven children besides Maria Jane. But how do 
I know that she might not have brought them up 
much better? Maria Jane herself is far from 
strong, and is subject to headaches, and nervous 
indigestion. Besides which, I learn from the 
statistical tables, that one child in five dies within 
the first year of its life; and one child in three 
within the fifth. That don't look as if we could 
never improve in these particulars, I think ! 

P. P. S. — Augustus George is in convulsions. 

Charles Dickens. 

A MAN BY THE NAME OF BOLUS. 

A MAN by the name of Bolus — (all 'at we'll 
ever know 
Of the stranger's name, I reckon — and I'm 
kind o' glad it's so !) 
Got off here Christmas morning — looked round 

the town, and then 
Kind o' sized up the folks, I guess, and — went 
away again ! 

The fact is, this man Bolus got "run in" Christ- 
mas day ; 

The town turned out to see it, and cheered, and 
blocked the way ! 



' And they dragged him 'fore the Mayor — fer he 
couldn't er wouldn't walk — 
And socked him down fer trial — though he 
couldn't er wouldtit talk ! 

Drunk ? — they was no doubt of it ! W'y, the Mar- 
shal of the town 

I^aughed and testified 'at he fell up stairs 'stid of 
down ! 

This man by the name of Bolus? W'y, he even 
drapped his jaw 

And snored on through his "hearin"' drunk as 
you ever saw ! 

One fellar spit in his bootleg, and another'n 

drapped a small 
Little chunk of ice down his collar — but he didn't 

wake at all I 
And they all nearly split when His Honor said, in 

one of his witty ways. 
To "chalk it down for him 'Called away — be 

back in thirty days !' " 

That's where this man named Bolus slid, kind o' 

like in a fit, 
Flat on the floor — and drat my ears ! I hear 'em 

a-laughin' yit ! 
Somebody fetched Doc Sifers from jest acrost the 

hall— 
And all Doc says was, "Morphine! We're too 

late !" and that's all ! 

That's how they found his name out — piece of a 

letter 'at read : 
" Your wife has lost her reason, and little Nathan's 

dead — 
Come ef you kin — fergive her — but Bolus, as fer 

This hour I send a bullet through where my heart 
ort to be !" 

Man by the name o' Bolus ! As his revilers broke 
Fer the open air, peared like, to me, I heerd a 

voice 'at s]3oke, 
Man by the name of Bolus ! git up from where you 

lay — 
Git up and smile white at 'em, with your hands 

crossed thataway ! 

James Whitcomb Riley. 

SALAD. 

O make this condiment, your poet begs 
The pounded yellow of two hard-boiled 
eggs; 
Two boiled potatoes, passed through kitchen- 
sieve, 
Smoothness and softness to the salad give ; 
Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl, 
And, half-suspected, animate the whole. 
Of mordant mustard add a single spoon. 
Distrust the condiment that bites too soon ; 



T 



604 



WIT AND WISDOM. 



But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault, 
To add a double quantity of salt. 
And, lastly, o'er the flavored compound toss 
A magic soup sijoon of anchovy sauce. 
Oh, green and glorious ! Oh, herbaceous treat ! 
'Twould tempt the dying anchorite to eat ; 
Back to the world he'd turn his fleeting soul, 
And plunge his fingers in the salad bowl ! 
Serenely full, the epicure would say, 
" Fate cannot harm me, I have dined to-day !" 

Sydney Smith. 

'T IS NOT FINE FEATHERS THAT MAKE 
FINE BIRDS. 

A PEACOCK came, with his plumage gay. 
Strutting in regal pride, one day. 
Where a little bird hung in a gilded cage, 
Whose song might a seraph's ear engage. 
The bird sang on, while the ]ieacock stood, 
Vaunting his plumes to the neighborhood ; 
And the radiant sun seemed not more bright 
Than the bird that basked in his golden light ; 
But the little bird sang, in his own sweet words, 
" 'T is not fine feathers that make fine birds !" 

The peacock strutted — a bird so fair 

Never before had ventured there. 

While the small bird hung at the cottage door — 

And what could a peacock wish for more ? 

Alas ! the bird of the rainbow wing. 

He was n't contented — fw tried to sing ! 

And they who gazed on his beauty bright, 

Scared by his screaming, soon took to flight ; 

While the little bird sang, in his own sweet words, 
" 'T is not fine feathers that make fine birds !" 



Then, prithee, take warning, maidens fair, 
And still of the peacock's fate beware; 
Beauty and wealth won't win your way. 
Though they 're attired in plumage gay ; 
Something to charm you all must know. 
Apart from fine feathers and outward show — 
A talent, a grace, a gift of mind. 
Or else small beauty is left behind ! 

While the little birds sing, in their own true 
words, 
" 'T is not fine feathers that make fine birds !" 



o 



TOTAL ANNIHILATION. 

H ! he was a Bowery bootblack bold, 
And his years they numbered nine. 
Rough and unpolished was he, albeit, 
He constantly aimed to shine. 



As proud as a king on his box he sat, 

Munching an apple red, 
'"hile the boys of his set looked wistfully on, 

And, "Give me a bite!" they said. 

But the bootblack smiled a lordly smile, 
" No free bites here !" he cried. 

And the boys, they sadly walked away, 
Save one, who stood at his side. 

" Bill, give us the core," he whispered low. 

That bootblack smiled one more, 
And a mischievous dimple grew in his cheek — • 

" There ain't goin' to be no core !" 

Mary D. Baine. 




CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS 



WITH 



SUBJECTS ARRANGED ALPHABETICALLY. 



ABSENCE. 

F all affliction taught a lover yet, 

'Tis sure the hardest science to forget ! 

Pope. 

Condemned whole years in absence to deplore, 
And image charms he must behold no more. 

Pope. 

No happier task these faded eyes pursue; 
To read and weep is all they now can do. 

Pope. 

Love reckons hours for months, and days for years; 
And every little absence is an age. 

Dryden. 

All flowers will droop in absence of the sun 
That waked their sweets. 

Dryden. 




A boat at midnight sent alone 

To drift upon the moonless sea, 
A lute, whose leading chord is gone, 
A wounded bird, that hath but one 
Imperfect wing to soar upon, 

Are like what I am, without thee ! 

Moore. 
'Tis scarcely 
Two hours since ye departed : two long hours 
To me, but only hours upon the sun. 

Byron. 

Wives, in their husband's absence, grow subtler, 
And daughters sometimes run off with the butler. 

Byron. 

Absent many a year 
Far o'er the sea, his sweetest dreams were still 
Of that dear voice that soothed his infancy. 

Soiithey. 

We must part awhile : 
A few sliort months — though short, they must 
be long 



Without thy dear society ; but yet 
We must endure it, and our love will be 
The fonder after parting — it will grow 
Intenser in our absence, and again 
Burn with a tender glow when I return. 

Percival. 
When from land and home receding. 
And from hearts that ache to bleeding, 
Think of those behind, who love thee, 
While the sun is bright above thee ! 
Then, as down the ocean glancing, 
With the waves his rays are dancing, 
Think how long the night will be 
To the eyes that weep for thee. 

Miss Gould. 
Call thou me home ! from thee apart 

Faintly and low my pulses beat, 
As if the life-blood of my heart 

Within thine own heart holds its seat, 
And floweth only where thou art : 
Oh ! call me home. 

Mrs. Oakes Smith. 



ACTIVITY. 



The keen spirit 
Seizes the prompt occasion — makes the thought 
Start into instant action, and at once 
Plans and performs, resolves and executes ! 

Hannah More. 



My days, though few, have j'assed below 
In much of joy, though more of woe ; 
Yet still, in hours of love or strife, 
I've 'scap'd the weariness of life. 

Byron, 
505 



506 



CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 



How slow the time 
To the warm soul, that, in the very instant 
It forms, would execute a great design ! 

Thomson. 

Lives of great men all remind us 

We can make our lives sublime, 
And, departing, leave behind us 

Footprints on the sands of time. 

ADVERSITY. 

For as when merchants break, o'erthroun j 
Like ninepins, they strike others down. 

Butler. 



Let us then be up and doing; 

With a heart for any fate. 
Still achieving, still pursuing, 

Learn to labor and to wait. 

Longfellow. 

Run if you like, but try to keep your breath ; 
Work like a man, but don't be worked to death. 

Holmes. 



Though losses and crosses 
Be lessons right severe. 
There's wit there, ye' 11 get there, 
Ye'll find nae other where. 

Bums. 

The brave imfortunatc are our best acquaintance; 
They show us virtue may be much distressed, 
And give us their example how to suffer. 

Francis. 

In this wild world the fondest and the best, 
Are the most tried, most troubled, and distressed. 

Crabbe. 

I have not quailed to danger's brow 
When high and happy — need I now? 

Byron. 

One thought alone he could not — dared not meet, 
"Oh, how these tidings will Medora greet?" 
Then — only then — his clanking hands he raised 
And strained with rage the chain on which he gazed. 

Byron. 



The good are better made by ill : — 
As odors crushed are sweeter still ! 



Rogers. 



AGE. 



The sixth age shifts 
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon ; 
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side ; 
His youthful hose well saved, a world too wide 
For his shrunk shank ; and his big manly voice. 
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes 
And whistles in his sound. 

Last scene of all, 
That ends this strange eventful history, 
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion ; 
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing. 

Shakespeare, 

I'm thirty-five, I'm thirty-five! 

Nor would I make it less. 
For not a year has passed away 

Unmarked by happiness. 
And who would drop one pleasant link 

From memorv's golden chain ? 



Deserted at his utmost need. 
By those his former bounty fed. 

Dryden. 
To exult 
Ev'n o'er an enemy oppressed, and heap 
Affliction on the afflicted, is the mark, 
And the mean triumph of a dastard soul. 

Smollett. 
Ye good distressed ! 
Ye noble few ! who here unbending stand 
Beneath life's pressure, yet bear up awhile. 
And what your bounded view, which only saw 
A little [Jart, deemed evil, is no more ; 
The storms of wintry time will quickly pass. 
And one unbounded spring encircle all. 

Thomson. 

Affliction is the good man's shining scene ; 
Prosperity conceals his brightest ray ; 
As night to stars, woe lustre gives to man. 

Young. 

We bleed, we tremble, we forget, we smile. 
The mind turns fool, before the cheek is dry. 

Young. 

Adversity's cold frosts will soon be o'er; 
It heralds brighter days : — the joyous spring 
Is cradled on the winter's icy breast. 
And yet comes flushed in beauty. 

Mrs. He/nans. 

Or lose a sorrow, losing too 

The love that soothed the pain? 

Oh ! still may heaven within my soul 
Keep truth and love alive — 

Then angel graces will be mine. 
Though over thirty-five. 

Mrs. Hale. 

Why grieve that time has brought so soon 
The sober age of manhood on ? 

As idly should I weep at noon 

To see the blush of morning gone. 

Bjyant. 

Thus aged men, full loth and slow. 
The vanities of life forego. 
And count their youthful follies o'er, 
Till memory lends her light no more. 

Scott. 



CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 



507 



AMBITION. 



Great souls, 
By nature half divine, soar to the stars, 
And hold a near acquaintance with the gods. 

Ro'a.'e. 
That is a step, 
On which I must fall down, or else o'erleap, 
For in my way it lies. 

Shakespeare. 

Before I knew thee, Mary, 
Ambition was my angel : I did hear 
For ever its witched voices in mine ear ; 

My days were visionary — 
My nights were like the slumbers of the mad :- 
And every dream swept o'er me glory clad. 

Willis. 



Unnumbered suppliants crowd preferment's gate, 
Athirst for wealth, and burning to be great. 
Delusive fortune hears the incessant call, 
They mount, they shine — evaporate and fall. 

Dr. Johnson. 

I have no spur 
To prick the sides of my intent, but only 
Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself. 
And falls on the other side. 

Shakespeare. 

These quenched a moment her ambitious thirst — 
So Arab deserts drink in summer's rain 
In vain ! — As fall the dews on quenchless sands. 
Blood only serves to wash ambitious hands. 

Byron. 



ANGLING. 



I in these flowery meads would be ; 
These crystal streams should solace me ; 
To whose harmonious, bubbling noise 
I with my angle would rejoice. IValtoti. 



And angle on, and beg to have 

A quiet passage to a welcome grove. 



IJ'al/Ofi. 



Oh ! lone and lovely haunts are thine, 

Soft, soft the river flows, 
Wearing the shadow of thy line. 
The gloom of alder boughs. 

Afrs. Hemans. 
Our plenteous streams a various race supply. 

Pope. 



AVARICE. 



Some, o'er-enamored of their bags, run mad. 
Groan under gold, yet weep for want of bread. 

1 'oung. 

Why Mammon sits before a million hearths 
Where God is bolted out from every house. 

Bailley. 

*' I give and I devise " (Old Euclio said. 
And sigh'd,) " my lands and tenements to Ned." 
Your money, sir?—" My money, sir, what, all? 
Why, if I must" (then wept), "I give it Paul." 
The manor, sir? — "The manor! hold," he cried, 
■"Not that — I cannot part with that," and died. 

Pope. 



The lust of gold succeeds the lust of conquest : 
The lust of gold, unfeeling and remorseless ! 
The last corruption of degenerate man. 

Dr. Johnson. 

O cursed love of gold ; when for thy sake 
The fool throws up his interest in both worlds, 
First starved in this, then damned in that to come. 

Blair. 

But the base miser starves amid his store, 
Broods on his gold, and griping still at more. 
Sits sadly pining, and believes he's poor. 

Dryden. 



BEAUTY. 



Beautiful, yes ! but the blush will fade, 

The light grow dim which the blue eyes wear; 
The gloss will vanish from curl and braid. 

And the sunbeam die in the waving hair. 
Turn from the mirror, and strive to win 

Treasures of loveliness still to last ; 
Gather earth's glory and bloom within, 

That the soul may be bright when youth is past. 

Mrs. Osgood. 

Thou art beautiful, young lady — 

But I need not tell you this ; 
For few have borne, unconsciously, 

The spell of loveliness. 

Whit tier. 



Fve gazed on many a brighter face. 

But ne'er on one for years, 
Where beauty left so soft a trace 

As it had left on hers. Mrs. Welby. 

The face, O call it fair, not pale. 

Coleridge. 

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever. 

Keats. 

No wonder that cheek in its beauty transcendant, 

Excelleth the beauty of others by far ; 
No wonder that eye is so richly resplendent. 
For )'Our heart is a rose and your soul is a star. 

Mrs. Osgood. 



508 



CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 



Her cheek had the pale pearly pink 

Of sea-shells, the world's sweetest tint, as though 

She lived, one half might deem, on roses sopped 

In silver dew. 

Bailey. 

When I forget that the stars shine in air. 
When I forget that beauty is in stars — 
Shall I forget thy beauty. 

Bailey. 

Thy glorious beauty was the gift of heaven — 
As such thou should'st have prized it, and have died 
Ere thou didst yield it Uj) to mortal touch. 
Unless thy heart went with it, to make pure 
And sanctify the offering. 

Mrs. Osgood. 

What right have you, madam, gazing in your 

shining mirror daily. 
Getting so by heart your beauty, which all others 

must adore ; 
While you draw the golden ringlets down your 

fingers, to vow gaily, 
You will wed no man that's only good to God — 

and nothing more. 

Mrs. Browniiij^. 

Beauty — the fading rainbow's pride. 

Halleck. 

Without the smile from partial beauty won, 
Oh, what were man ! — a world without a sun ! 

Campbell. 



Beauty has gone ; but yet her mind is still 
As beautiful as ever ; still the play 
Of light around her lips has every charm 
Of childhood in its freshness. 

Percival. 

O, say not, wisest of all the kings 

That have risen on Israel's throne to reign. 

Say not, as one of your wisest things. 
That grace is false and beauty vain. 

Pierpont, 

Is beauty vain because it will fade ? 

Then are earth's green robe and heaven's light 
vain ; 
For this sliall be lost in evening's shade, 
And that in winter's sleety rain. 

Pierpont, 

I would that thou might'st ever be 

As beautiful as now ; 
That time might ever leave as free 

Thy yet unwritten brow. 

Willis. 

She was like 
A dream of poetry, that may not be 
Written or told — exceeding beautiful. 

Willis. 

beauty was lent to nature as the type 
Of heaven's unspeakable and holy joy, 
Where all perfection makes the sum of bliss. 

Mrs. Hale. 



BIGOTRY. 



For modes of faith let graceless zealots fight ; 
His can't be wrong, whose life is in the right. 

Pope. 

Heaven never took a pleasure or a pride. 
In starving stomachs, or a horsewhipped hide. 

Wolcot. 

Yet some there are, of men I think the worst. 
Poor imps ! unhappy, if they can't be curst. 

Wolcot. 

To follow foolish precedents, and wink 
With both our eyes, is easier than to think. 

Coiuper. 

And he at len2;th the amplest triumph gained, 
Who contradicted what the last maintained. 

Prior. 



And many more such pious scraps 

To prove (what we've long proved perhaps) 

That mad as Christians used to be 

About the thirteenth century. 

There's lots of Christians to be had 

In this, the nineteenth, just as mad ! 

Moore. 

The slaves of custom and established mode, 
With pack-horse constancy we keep the road. 
Crooked or straight, through quags or thorny dells, 
True to the jingling of our leader's bells. 

Cowper. 

Sure 'tis an orthodox opinion. 
That grace is founded in dominion. 



Butler. 



BIRTHDAY. 



If any white-winged power above 

My joys and griefs survey, 
The day when thou wert born, my love — 

He surely blessed that day. 
And duly shall my raptured song, 

And gladly shall my eyes 
Still bless this day's return, so long 

As thou shalt see it rise. 

Campbell. 



Why should we count our life by years. 

Since years are short, and jtass away ! 
Or, why by fortune's smiles or tears. 

Since tears are vain and smiles decay ! 
O ! count by virtues — these shall last 

When life's lame-footed race is o'er; 
And these, when earthly joys are past. 

May cheer us on a brighter shore. 

Mrs. Hale. 



CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 



509 



My birthday ! O, beloved mother ! 

My heart is with thee o'er the seas. 
I did not think to count another, 

Before I wept ujjon thy knees. Willis. 

Another year ! another leaf 

Is turned within life's volume brief, 

And yet not one bright page appears 

Of mine within that book of years. Hoffman. 



Yet all I've learnt irom hours rife 

With painful brooding here. 
Is, that amid this mortal strife, 

The lapse of every year 
But takes away a hope from life, 
And adds to death a fear. 

Hoffman. 
Another milestone planted by the way. 

Wilcox. 



BOOKS. 



'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print; 
A book's a book although there's nothing in 't. 

Byron. 

'Twas heaven to lounge upon a couch, .said Gray, 
And 'read new novels on a rainy day. 

Spragiie. 

A blessing on the printer's art ! — 
Books are the Mentors of the heart. 

Mrs. Hale. 

The burning soul, tlie burdened mind 
In books alone companions find. 

Mrs. Hale. 

The past but lives in words : a thousand ages 
Were blank, if books had not evok'd their ghosts, 
And kept the pale, unbodied shades to warn us 
From fleshless lips. 

Biilwer. 



Turn back the tide of ages to its head. 
And hoard the wisdom of tlie honored dead. 

Sprague. 

What he has written seems to me no more 
Than I have thought a thousand times before. 

Willis. 

We never speak our deepest feelings ; 
Our holiest hopes have no revealings, 
Save in the gleams that light the face. 
Or fancies that the pen may trace. 
And hence to books the heart must turn 
When with unspoken thoughts we yearn. 
And gather from the silent page 
The just reproof, the counsel sage, 
The consolation kind and true 
That soothes and heals the wounded heart. 

Mrs. Hale. 



CANDOR. 



Then, gentle Clarence, welcome unto Warwick 
And welcome, Somerset : — I hold it cowardi"e 
To rest mistrustful where a noble heart 
Hath pawed an open hand in sign of love. 

Shakespeare. 

Make ni}' breast 
Transparent as pure crystal, that the world, 
Jealous of me, may see the foulest thought 
My heart does hold. 

Biickingliam. 



'Tis great — 'tis manly to disdain disguise ; 
It shows our spirit, or it proves our strength. 

] 'oioig. 

No haughty gesture marks his gait. 

No pompous tone his word, 
No studied attitude is seen. 

No palling nonsense heard ; 
He'll suit his bearing to the hour, 

Laugh, listen, learn or teach. 
With joyous freedom in his mirth 

And candor in his speech. Eliza Cook. 



CARE. 



But human bodies are sic fools. 

For a' their colleges and schools. 

That when nae real ills perplex them. 

They mak' enow themsels to ve.x them. Burns. 

And on, with many a step of pain, 

Our weary race is sadly run ; 
And still, as on we plod our way. 

We find, as life's gay dreams depart, 
To close our being's troubled day. 

Nought left us but a broken heart. 

Percival. 

Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye. 
And where care lodgeth sleep will never lie. 

Shakespeare. 



Care is no cure, but rather corrosive. 
For things that are not to be remedied. 

Shakespeare. 

He woke — to watch the lamp, and tell 
From hour to hour the castle-bell, 
Or listen to the owlet's cry. 
Or the sad breeze that whistles by. 
Or catch by fits the tuneless rhyme 
With which the warden cheats the time ; 
And envying think, how, when the sun 
Bids the poor soldier's watch be done, 
Couched on his straw, and fancy-free. 
He sleeps like careless infancy. 

Scott. 



510 



CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 



CHANGE. 



Weep not that the world changes — did it keep 
A stable, changeless course, 'twere cause to weep. 

Bryant. 

Not in vain the distance beckons, 
Forward, forward let us range ; 

Let the peoples spin for ever 

Down the ringing grooves of change. 

Tennvson. 



I ask not what change 

Has come over thy heart, 
I seek not what chances 

Have doomed us to part ; 
I know thou hast told me 

To love thee no more. 
And I still must obey 

Where I once did adore. 



Hoffman. 



CHARACTER. 



His talk is like a stream which runs 

With rapid change from rocks to roses ; 
He slips from politics to puns, 

Passes from Mahomet to Moses ; 
Beginning with the laws that keep 

The planets in their radiant courses. 
And ending with some precept deep 

For dressing eels or shoeing horses. 

Praed. 
She was the pride 
Of her familiar sphere — the daily joy 
Of all who on her gracefulness might gaze, 
And in the light and music of her way 
Have a companion's portion. 

Willis. 

The angels sang in heaven when she was born. 

Longfellow. 

Devoted, anxious, generous, void of guile, 
And with her whole heart's welcome in her smile. 

Mrs. Nortoti. 



She has a glowing heart, they say, 
Though calm her seeming be ; 

And oft that warm heart's lovely play' 
Upon her cheek I see. 

Mrs. Osgood. 

Though time her bloom is stealing. 
There's still beyond his art — 

The wild-flower wreath of feeling, 
The sunbeam of the heart. 

Halleck. 

Bold in the cause of God he stood 
Like Templar in the Holy land ; 

And never knight of princely blood 
In lady's bower more bland. 

Mrs. Hale. 

His high, broad forehead, marble fair. 

Told of the power of thought within ; 
And strength was in his raven hair — 
But when he smiled a spell was there 

That more than strength or power could 
win. Mrs. Hale. 



CHARITY. 



For his bounty. 
There was no winter in't ; an autumn 'twas 
That grew the more by reaping. 

Shakespeare. 

A poor man served by thee, shall make thee rich. 

A/rs. Browning. 

O, rich man's son ! there is a toil, 
That with all others level stands ; 

Large charity doth never soil, 

But only whitens soft white hands ; — 
This is the best crop for thy lands ; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

Worth being rich to hold in fee. 

Lowell. 

Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to 

glow. 
And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 
Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 
His pity gave ere charity began. 

Goldsmith. 



Then gently scan your brother man. 

Still gentler sister woman, 
Though both may gang a kennie wrang. 

To step aside is human. 

Burns. 

Cast not the clouded gem away. 
Quench not the dim but living ray — 

My brother man, beware ! 
With that deep voice, which from the skies. 
Forbade the Patriarch's sacrifice, 

God's angel cries. Forbear! 

WhitHer. 

As the rivers, farthest flowing. 

In the highest hills have birth ; 
As the banyan, broadest growing, 

Oftenest bows its head to earth — 
So the noblest minds press onward. 

Channels far of good to trace; 
So the largest hearts bend downward. 

Circling all the human race. 

Mrs. Hale. 



CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 



511 



Still to a stricken brother true, 

Whatever clime hath nurtured him ; 

He stooped to heal the wounded Jew, 
The worshiper of Gerizim. 

Whiltier. 



And when religious sects ran mad, 
He held, in spite of all his learning, 

That if a man's belief is bad, 

It will not be improved by burning 



Praed. 



CHEERFULNESS. 



Let me play the fool : 
With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come ; 
And let my liver rather heat with wine. 
Than my heart cool with mortifying groans. 
Why should a man whose blood is warm within, 
Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster? 
Sleep when he wakes? and creep into the jaundice 
By being peevish ? 

Shakespeare. 



The seasons all had charms for her — 

She welcomed each with joy ; 
The charm that in her spirit lived 

No changes could destroy. 

Mrs. Hah: 



Smooth flow the waves, the zephyrs gently play, 
Belinda smiled and all the world was gay. 

Pope. 

When cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue. 

Her bow across her shoulders flung, 
Her buskins gemmed with morning dew. 

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket 
rung. 

Collins. 



O, it is monstrous! — monstrous! 
Methought, the billows spoke and told me of it; 
The winds did sing it to me, and the thunder, 
That deep and dreadful organ-pipe pronounced 
The name of Prosper. 

Shakespeare. 

I feel within me 
A peace above all earthly dignities, 
A still and quiet conscience. 

Shakespeare. 

'Tis ever thus 
With noble minds, if chance they slide to folly; 
Remorse stings deeper, and relentless conscience, 
Pours more of gall into the bitter cup 
Of their severe repentance. 

Mason. 

Now conscience wakes despair 
That slumbered, wakes the bitter memory 
Of what he was, what is, and what must be 
Worse ; if worse deeds, worse sufferings must 
ensue. Milton. 



Were it not worse than vain to close our eyes 
Unto the azure sky and golden light, 

Because the tempest cloud doth sometimes rise, 
And glorious day must darken into night? 

Jerold. 

CONSCIENCE. 

conscience, into what abyss of fears 
And horrors hast thou driven me; out of which 

1 find no way, from deep to deeper plunged. 

Mil/on. 

\ Why should not conscience have vacation 

As well as other court's o' th' nation; 
Have equal power to adjourn, 
Appoint appearance and return ? 

Butler. 

What's tender conscience? 'Tis a botch 
That will not bear the gentlest touch ; 
But, breaking out, despatches more 
Than the epideniical'st plague-soie 

Butler. 

Here, here it lies ; a lump of lead by day; 
And in my short, distracted, nightly slumbers. 
The hag that rides my dreams. 

Dry den. 

Yet still there whispers the small voice within. 
Heard through God's silence, and o'er glory's din 
Whatever creed be taught or land be trod, 
Man's conscience is the oracle of God I Byron, 

CONTENT. 



Contentment, parent of delight, 
So much a stranger to our sight. 
Say, goddess, in what happy place. 
Mortals behold thy blooming face ; 
Thy gracious auspices impart. 
And for thy temple choose my heart. 
They whom thou deignest to inspire. 
Thy science learn, to bound desire ; 
By happy alchemy of mind, 
They turn to pleasure all they find. 

Green. 



The cynic hugs his poverty, 

The pelican her wilderness ; 

And 'tis the Indian's pride to be 

Naked on frozen Caucasus : 

Contentment cannot smart ; stoics, we see. 

Make torments easy to their apathy. 

I swear, 't is better to be lowly born, 
And range with humble livers in content. 
Than to be perked up in a glistering grief, 
And wear a golden sorrow. Shakespeare. 



512 



CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 



Poor and content, is rich and rich enough; 
But riches, fineless, is as poor as winter, 
To him that ever fears he shall be poor. 

Shakespeare. 

Think'st thou the man whose mansions hold 
The worldling's pomp and miser's gold, 

Obtains a richer prize 
Than he who, in his cot at rest, 
Finds heavenly peace a willing guest, 
And bears the promise in his breast 

Of treasure in the skies? Mrs. Sigourney. 



Lo now, from idle wishes clear, 

I make the good I may not find ; 
Adown the stream I gently steer, 

And shift my sail with every wind. 
And half by nature, half by reason, 

Can still with pliant heart prepare, 
The mind, attuned to every season, 

The merry heart that laughs at care. 

Milman. 

Life's but a short chase ; our game — content. 

Cibber. 



COQUETTE. 



The vain coquette each suit disdains. 
And glories in her lover's pains ; 
With age she fades — each lover flies, 
Contemned, forlorn, she pines and dies. 

Gay. 

Who has not heard coquettes complain 
Of days, months, years, misspent in vain ? 
For time misused they pine and waste. 
And love's sweet pleasures never taste. 

Gay. 



Can I again that look recall. 

That once could make me die for thee ? — 
No, no ! — the eye that beams on all, 

Shall never more be prized by me. Moore. 

Would you teach her to love ? 
For a time seem to rove ; 

At first she may frown in a pet ; 
But leave her awhile. 
She shortly will smile. 

And then you may win your coquette. 

Byron. 



COURAGE. 



Let fortune empty her whole (luiveron me, 
I have a soul, that, like an ample shield. 
Can take in all, and verge enough for more : 
Fate was not mine, nor am I fate's: 
Souls know no conquerors. Dryden. 

Not to the ensanguined field of death alone 

Is valor limited : she sits serene 

In the deliberate council, sagely scans 

The source of action : weighs, prevents, ])rovides, 

And scorns to coimt her glories, from the feats 

•Of brutal force alone. Smollett. 

Think st thou there dwells no courage but in 

bre.ists 
That set their mail against the ringing spears. 
When helmets are struck down? Thou little 

knowest 
■Of nature's marvels. Mrs. Hemans. 



Ah, never shall the land forget 

How gushed the life-blood of the brave, 

Gushed warm with hope and courage yet. 
Upon the soil they fought to save! 

Bryant. 

Like a mountain lone and bleak, 
With its sky-encompassed peak, 

Thunder riven, 
Lifting its forehead bare. 
Through the cold and blighting air, 

Up to heaven. 
Is the soul that feels its woe, 
And is nerved to bear the blow. 

Mrs. Hale. 

Rocks have been shaken from their solid base ; 
But what shall move a firm and dauntless mind? 

Joanna Baillie. 



COURTSHIP. 



My storv being done. 
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs : 
She swore — in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing 

strange ; 
'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful : 
She wished she iiad not heard it; yet she wished 
That Heaven had made her such a man ; she 

thanked me ; 
And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her, ■ 
I should but teach liim how to tell my story, 
And that would vifoo her. Shakespeare. 



She that with poetry is won. 
Is but a desk to write upon ; 
And what men say of her, they mean 
No more than on the thing they lean. 

Butler. 

The knight, perusing this epistle, 
Believed h' had brought her to his whistle ; 
And read it, like a jocund lover. 
With great applause t' himself twice over. 

Butler. 



CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 



513 



If this inducement move her not to love, 
Send her a letter of thy noble deeds. 

Shakespeare. 

O if good heaven would be so much my friend! 
To let my fate upon my choice depend, 
All my remains of life with you I'd spend. 
And think my stars had given a happy end. 

Oldham. 

Like a lovely tree 
She grew to womanhood, and between whiles 
Rejected several suitors, just to learn 
How to accept a better in his turn. 

Byron. 



Woe to the man who ventures a rebuke ! 
'Twill but precipitate a situation 
Extremely disagreeable, but common 
To calculators when they count on woman. 

Byron. 
Learn to win a lady's faith 

Nobly as the thing is high ; 
Bravely, as for life and death 

With a loyal gravity. 
Lead her from the festive boards. 

Point her to the starry skies, 
Guard her by your truthful words, 
Pure from courtship's flatteries. 

Airs. Browning. 



CURIOSITY. 



The over curious are not over wise. 

Massinger. 

He who would pry 
Behind the scenes oft sees a counterfeit. 

Dry den. 

Conceal yersel' as weel's ye can 

Fra' critical dissection ; 
But keek thro' every other man 

With lengthened, sly inspection. Bums. 

Eve, 
With all the fruits of Eden blest, 
Save only one, rather than leave 
That one unknown lost all the rest. 

Moore. 

I loathe that low vice, curiosity. 

Byron. 

— Curiosity ! who hath not felt 

Its spirit, and before its altar knelt ? 

Spragtie. 



How many a noble art, now widely known. 
Owes its young impulse to this power alone ! 

Sprague. 

What boots it to your dust, your son were born 
An empire's idol or a rabble's scorn ? 
Think ye the franchised spirit shall return, 
To share his triumph, his disgrace to mourn ? 
Ah, curiosity ! by thee inspired 
This truth to know how oft has man enquired ! 

Sprague. 

Faith we may boast, undarkened by a doubt, 
We thirst to find each awful secret out. 

Sprague. 

The enquiring spirit will not be controlled. 
We would make certain all, and all behold. 

Sprague. 

The curious questioning eye, 
That plucks the heart of every mystery. 

Mellen. 



DEATH. 



Death levels all things in his march. 

Nought can resist his mighty strength ; 
The palace proud — triumphal arch. 

Shall mete their shadow's length ; 
The rich, the poor, one common bed 

Shall find in the unhonored grave, 
Where weeds shall crown alike the head 

Of tyrant and of slave. Marvel. 

On death and judgment, heaven and hell. 
Who oft doth think, must needs die well. 

Raleigh. 

That must end us, that must be our cure. 
To be no more ; sad cure ; for who would lose, 
Though full of pain, this intellectual being. 
These thoughts that wander through eternity ; 
To perish rather, swallowed up and lost 
In the wide womb of uncreated night. 
Devoid of sense and motion. 

Milton, 
33 



Death's shafts fly thick ! Here falls the village 

swain. 
And there his pampered lord ! The cup goes 

round, _,." 

And who so artful as to put it by? 

Blair. 
O great man-eater, 
Whose every day is carnival, not sated yet ! 
Unheard of epicure ! without a fellow ! 
The veriest gluttons do not always cram ; 
Some intervals of abstinence are sought 
To edge the appetite ; thou seekest none. 

Blair. 

Death's but a path that must be trod. 
If man would ever pass to God. 

Parnell. 

When musing on companions gone, 
We doubly feel ourselves alone. 

Scott. 



614 



CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 



Weep not for him who dieth — 

For he sleeps and is at rest ; 
And the couch whereon he lieth 

Is the green earth's quiet breast. 

Mrs. Norton. 



When our souls shall leave this dwelling. 
The glory of one fair and virtuous action 
Is above all the scutcheons on our tomb, 
Or silken banners over us. 

Shirley^ 



DEBTS. 



You have outrun your fortune ; 
I blame you not that you would be a beggar ; 
Each to his taste ! But I do charge you, Sir, 
That, being beggared, you should win false 

moneys 
Out of that crucible called debt ! ■ 

Bulwer. 



The ghost of many a veteran bill 

Shall hover around his slumbers. Holmes. 

The ghostly dun shall worry his sleep, 
And constables cluster around him, 

And he shall creep from the wood-hole deep 
Where their spectre eyes have found him. 

Holmes. 



DECEIT. 



Our innocence is not our shield : 
They take offence, who have not been offended ; 
They speak our ruin too, who speak us fair ; 
And death is often ambushed in our smiles : 
We know not whom we have to fear. 

Young. 

The world's all title-page; there's no contents; 
The world's all face ; the man who shows his heart 
Is hooted for his nudities and scorned. 

Yoimg. 

But now I look upon thy face, 

A very pictured show, 
Betraying not the slightest trace 

Of what may work below. 

Aliss Landon. 



O what a tangled web we weave. 
When first we practise to deceive ! 



Scott. 

They may be false who languish and complain. 
But they who sigh for money never feign. 

Lady Alontagtte. 

He that hangs or beats out his brains 
The devil's in him if he feigns. Butler. 

False wave of the desert, thou art less beguiling 
Tlian false beauty over the lighted hall shed : 
What but the smiles that have practised their 
smiling. 
Or honey words measured, and reckoned as said. 

Miss Landon. 



DESPAIR. 



To doubt 
Is worse than to have lost ; and to despair. 
Is but to antedate those miseries 
That must fall on us. 

Massinger. 

Despair takes heart, when there's no hope to speed: 
The coward then takes arms and does the deed. 

Herrick. 

Despair, 
Thou hast the noblest issue of all ill. 
Which frailty brings us to ; for to be worse 
We fear not, and who cannot lose, 
Is ever a frank gamester. 

Howard. 

Talk not of comfort, 'tis for lighter ills; 
I will indulge my sorrows, and give way 
To all the pangs and fury of despair. 

Addison. 

O Lucius, I am sick of this bad world ! 
The daylight and the sun grow painful to me. 

Addison. 



Methinks we stand on ruin ; nature shakes 
About us; and the universal frame's 
So loose, that it but wants another push 
To leap from its hinges. 

Lee. 

What miracle 
Can work me into hope ! Heaven here is bank- 
rupt, 
The wond'ring gods blush at the want of jiower. 
And quite abashed confess they cannot help me. 

Lee. 

And if despondency weigh down 
Thy spirit's fluttering pinions, then 

Despair — thy name is written on 
The roll of common men. 

Halleck. 

No thought within her bosom stirs. 

But wakes some feeling dark and dread ; 

God keep thee from a doom like hers. 
Of living when the hopes are dead. 

Pkoebe Cary. 



CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 



515 



DISCONTENT. 



Man hath a weary pilgrimage, 
As through the world he wends; 

On every stage, from youth to age. 
Still discontent attends. Soiithey. 

I cannot bear to be with men 

Who only see my weaknesses ; 
Who know not what I might have been, 

But scan my spirit as it is. Willis. 



It's hardly in a body's power 

To keep, at times, frae being sour, 

To see how things are shared ; 

How best o' chiels are whyles in want, 

While coofs on countless thousands rant, 

And ken na how to wair't. Burns. 

Thou poutest upon thy fortune and thy love : 

Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable. 

Shakespeare. 



DOUBT. 



Our doubts are traitors. 
And make us lose the good we oft might win. 
By fearing to attempt. 

Shakespeare. 

The clear, cold question chills to frozen doubt ; 
Tired of beliefs, we dread to live without ; 
O then, if reason waver at thy side, 
Let humbler Memory be thy gentle guide, 
Go to thy birth-place, and, if faith was there, 
Repeat thy father's creed, thy mother's prayer. 

Holmes. 



Yet do not think I doubt thee, 
I know thy truth remains ; 

I would not live without thee, 
For all the world contains. 



Morris. 



Beware of doubt — faith is the subtle chain 
Which binds us to the infinite : the voice 

Of a deep life within, that will remain 
Until we crowd it thence. 

Mrs. Oakes Smith. 



DRESS. 



'Tis the mind that makes the body rich ; 

And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds, 

So honor peereth in the meanest habit. 

Shakespeare. 

Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy. 

But not expressed in fancy ; rich, not gaudy ; 

For the apparel oft proclaims the man. 

Shakespeare. 

Through tattered clothes small vices do appear; 
Robes and furr'd gowns hide all. 

Shakespeare. 

Can any dresses find a way 

To stop th' approaches of decay 

And mend a ruined face? 

Dorset. 



I pass their form, and ev'ry charming grace; 
But their attire, like liveries of a kind 
All rich and rare, is fresh within my mind. 

Dryden. 

Nay, oft in dreams invention we bestow 
To change a flounce, or add a furbelow. 

Pope. 

No worthies formed by any muse but thine 
Could purchase robes to make themselves so fine. 

Waller. 

Gay mellow silks her mellow charms infold, 
And nought of Lyce but herself is old. 

Young. 

Loveliness 
Needs not the foreign aid of ornament, 
But is, when unadorned, adorned the most. 

Thomson, 



DUTY. 



Stern daughter of the voice of God ! 

O Duty ! if that name thou love 
Who art a light to guide, a rod 

To check the erring, and reprove ; 
Thou who art victory and law 
When empty terrors overawe, 
Give unto me, made lowly wise, 
The spirit of self-sacrifice. Wordsworth. 

Cold duty's path is not so blithely trod 
Which leads the mournful spirit to its God. 

Herbert. 



Rugged strength and radiant beauty — 
These were one in nature's plan ; 

Humble toil and heavenward duty — 
These will form the perfect man. 

Mrs. Hale. 

Vain we number every duty, 

Number all our prayers and tears, 

Still the spirit lacketh beauty. 
Still it droops with many fears. 

Mrs. Oakes Smith, 



516 



CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 



To hallowed duty, 
Here with a loyal and heroic heart, 
Bind we our lives. 

Mrs. Osgood. 



Then the purposes of life 
Stood apart from vulgar strife, 
Labor in the path of duty 
Gleamed up like a thing of beauty. 



Crunch. 



EDUCATION. 



'Tis education forms the common mind; 
Just as the twig is bent, the tree's inclined. 
Boastful and rough, your first son is a squire ; 
The next a tradesman meek, and much a liar ; 
Tom struts a soldier, open, bold, and brave ; 
Will sneaks a scrivener, an exceeding knave : 
Is he a churchman ? Then he's fond of power; 
A Quaker? Sly; A Presbyterian ! Sour; 
A smart free-thinker ? All things in an hour. 

Pope. 

She taught the child to read, and taught so well. 
That she herself, by teacliing, learned to sjjell. 

Byron. 

'Tis pleasing to be schooled in a strange tongue 

By female lips and eyes — that is, 1 mean 
When both the teacher and the taught are young, 

As was the case at least where 1 have been ; 
They smile so when one's right, and when one's 

wrong 
They smile still more. 

Byro7i. 

A little learning is a dangerous thing, 
Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring, 
For shallow draughts intoxicate the brain. 
But drinking largelv sobers us again. 

Bope. 



Culture's hand 
Has scattered verdure o'er the land; 
And smiles and fragrance rule serene. 
Where barren wild usurped the scene. 
And such is man — a soil which breeds 
Or sweetest flowers, or vilest weeds ; 
Flowers lovely as the morning's light, 
Weeds deadl)- as an aconite : 
Just as his heart is trained to bear 
The jjoisonous weed, or flow'ret fair. 

BoTfn'ng: 

Learning by study must be won ; 
'Twas ne'er entailed from sire to son. 

Gay. 

And say to mothers what a holy charge 
Is theirs — with what a kingly power their love 
Might rule the fountains of the new-l)orn mind ; 
Warn them to wake at early dawn, and sow 
Good seed liefore the world has sown its tares. 

Mrs. S/gourfiey. 

Look through the casement of yon village school, 
Where now the pedant with his oaken rule, 
Sits like Augustus on the imperial tiirone, 
Between two poets yet to fame unknown. 

FieUs. 



ENTHUSIASM. 



No wild enthusiast ever yet could rest, 
'Till half mankind we/e like himself ])0ssessed. 

Cowper. 



And rash enthusiasm in good society 
Were nothing but a moral inebriety. 



Byron. 



In every secret glance he stole 
The fond enthusiast sent his soul. 



Scott. 



I gaze upon the thousand stars 

That fill the midnight sky; 
And wish, so passionately wish, 

A light like theirs on high. 
I have such eagerness of hope 

To benefit my kind ; 
I feel as if immortal power 

Were given to my mind. 

Miss Landon. 



ERROR. 



O hateful error, melancholy's child ! 

Why dost thou show to the apt thoughts of men 

The things that are not? O error, soon conceived, 

Thou never com'st unto a happy birth, 

But kill'st the mother that engendered thee. 

Shakespeare. 

When people once are in the wrong, 
Each line they add is much too long; 
Who fastest walks, but walks astray. 
Is only furthest from his way. 

Prior. 



By tasting of the fruit forbid 
Where they sought knowledge they did error find, 
111 they desired to know, and ill they did, 
And to give passion eyes made reason blind. 

Davies. 

Error is worse than ignorance. Bailey. 
Error's monstrous shapes from earth are driven : 
They fade, they flv — but truth survives the flight. 

Bryant. 

Verily, there is nothing so true, that the damps of 
error hath not warped it. Tapper. 



CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 



517 



ETIQUETTE. 



There's nothing in the world like etiquette 
In kingly chambers or imperial halls, 
As also at the race and county balls. 

Byron. 

There was a general whisper, toss, and wriggle, 
But etiquette forbade them all to giggle. 

Byron. 



Harshly falls 
The doom upon the ear — " She's not genteel !" 
And pitiless is woman who doth keep 
Of " good society " the golden key ! 
And gentlemen are bound, as are the stars, 
To stoop not after rising. 

Willis. 



EXAMPLE. 



For as the light 
Not only serves to show, but render us 
Mutually profitable; so our lives. 
In acts exemplary, not only win 
Ourselves good names, but do to others give 
Matter for virtuous deeds, by which we live. 

Chapman. 
Heaven me such uses send ; 
Not to pick bad from bad ; but by bad, mend ! 

SJuikespcare. 



No age hath been, since nature first began 
To work Jove's wonders, but hath left behind 
Some deeds of praise for mirrors unto man, 
Which more than threatful laws have men 

clined. 
To tread the paths of praise excites the mind : 
Mirrors tie thoughts to virtue's due respects ; 
Examples hasten deeds to good effects. 



m- 



Sackville. 



EYES. 



Those eyes, those eyes, how full of heaven they are. 
When the calm twilight leaves the heaven most 
holy! 
Tell me, sweet eyes, i'rom what divinest star 
Did ye drink in your liquid melancholy? 
Tell me, beloved eyes ! 

Bul-wer. 

Some praise the eyes they love to see. 
As rivalling the western star ; 

But eyes I know well worth to me 

A thousand firmaments afar. Stirling. 

Those eyes that were so bright, love. 

Have now a dimmer shine ; 
But what they've lost in light, love. 

Is what they gave to mine. 
And still those orbs reflect, love, 

The beams of former hours. 
That ripened all my joys, love, 

And tinted all my flowers. Hood. 

His eye was blue and calm, as is the sky 
In the serenest noon. Willis. 



I have sat. 
And in the blue depths of her stainless eyes 
Have gazed ! Willis. 

Those eyes — among thine elder friends 
Perhaps they pass for blue ; — 

No matter — if a man can see, 
What more have eyes to do? 

Holmes. 

I look upon the fair blue skies, 

And naught but empty air I see ; 
But when I turn nie to thine eyes, 

It seemeth unto me 
Ten thousand angels spread their wings 
Within those little azure rings. 

Holmes. 

The bright black eye, the melting blue, 
I cannot choose between the two. 
But that is dearest, all the while. 
Which wears for us the sweetest smile. 

Holmes. 



FAITH. 



Faith is the subtle chain 
That binds us to the Infinite : the voice 
Of a deep life within, that will remain 
Until we crowd it thence. Mrs. Oakes Smith. 

Faith lo\es to lean on time's destroying arm, 
And age, like distance, lends a double charm. 

Holmes. 

Great faith it needs, according to my view. 
To trust in that which never could be true. 

Benjami7i. 



Faith builds a bridge across the gulf of death. 
To break the shock blind nature cannot shun. 
And lands thought smoothly on the further shore. 

Yo2ing. 

But faith, fanatic faith, once wedded fast 
To dear falsehood, hugs it to the last. 

Moore, 

There lives more faith in honest doubt, 
Believe me, than in half the creeds. 

Tennyson. 



518 



CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 



FAME. 



Fame ! Fame ! thou canst not be the stay 

Unto tlie drooping reed, 
The cool fresh fountain in the day 

Of the soul's feverish need : 
Where must the lone one turn or flee ? 
Not unto thee, oh ! not to thee ! 

Mrs. Hemans. 

Of all the phantoms fleeting in the mist 
Of Time, though meagre all and ghostly thin, 
Most unsubstantial, unessential shade 
Was earthly fame. 

Pollock. 

I am a woman — tell me not of fame, 
The eagle's wing may sweep the stormy path. 
And fling back arrows where the dove would die. 

Miss Landon. 



Nor let thy noble spirit grieve, 

Its life of glorious fame to leave — 

A life of honor and of worth 

Has no eternity on earth. Longfellow. 

The world may scorn me, if they choose — I care 
But little for their scofifings. I may sink 
For moments; but I rise again, nor shrink 

From doing what the faithful heart inspires. 
I will not flatter, fawn, nor crouch, nor wink, 
At what high mounted wealth or power desires 
I have a loftier aim, to which my soul aspires. 

Percival. 
We tell thy doom without a sigh, 

For thou art freedom's now, and fame's — • 
One of the few immortal names 
That were not born to die. Halleck. 



FAREWELL. 



Fare thee well ! yet think awhile 

On one whose bosom bleeds to doubt thee; 
Who now would rather trust thy smile. 

And die with thee, than live without thee. 

Moore. 
'Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh ; 

Oh ! more than tears of blood can tell, 
When wrung from guilt's exjjiring eye, 

Are in the word, farewell — farewell ! 

Byron. 

Farewell ! there's but one pang in death, 
One only — leaving thee ! 

Mrs. Hemans. 



Farewell ! the early devvs that fall 
Upon the grass-grown bed, 



Are like the thoughts that now recall 

Thine image of the dead. 
A blessing hallows thy dark cell — 
I will not stay to weep. — Farewell. 

Miss Landon. 

Farewell — thou hast trampled love's faith in the 
dust, 

Thou hast torn from my bosom its hope and its 
trust ; 

Yet, if thy life's current with bliss it would swell, 

I would pour out my own in this last fond fare- 
well ! Hoffman. 

And, like some low and mournful spell, 
To whisper but one word — farewell ! 

Benjamin. 



FASHION. 



Oh! wreathe the ribbon lightly round, 

And tie it 'neath your chin ; 
And do not let its folds be bound 

By needle or by pin ! 
It is unworthy, lady dear, 

Your dignity of mind. 
To take such trouble with your gear. 

Mrs. Osgood. 

Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion 

Round the wealthy bride ; 
But when compared with real passion 

Poor is all that pride — 
What are their showy treasures? 
What are their noisy pleasures ? 



The gay, gaudy glare of vanity and art — 
The polished jewels blaze 
May draw the wondering gaze, 

But never, never can come near the worthy heart. 

Burns. 

The company is " mixed." (The phrase I 

quote is 
As much as saying, they're below your notice.) 

Byron. 

Fashion's smiles, that rich ones claim. 

Are beams of a wintry day ; 
How cold and dim those beams would be 

Should life's poor wanderer come ! 

Mrs. Hale. 



FEAR. 



The night came on alone, 

The little stars sat one by one 

Each on his golden throne ; 

The evening air passed by my cheek, 



The leaves above were stirred, 
But the beating of my own heart 
Was all the sound I heard. 



Milnes. 



CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 



619 



But that I am forbid 
To tell the secrets of my prison-house, 
I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word 
Would harrow up thy soul ; freeze thy young 

blood ; 
Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their 

spheres ; 
Thy knotted and combined locks to part, 
And each particular hair to stand on end, 
Like quills upon the fretful porcupine. 

Shakespeare. 

Hast thou learned to doubt professions, and dis- 
trust 

The word of promise? — if not so, the world has 
been more just 

To thee than me. Miss Bogart. 



Like one, that on a lonesome road 

Doth walk in fear and dread. 
And having once turned round walks on, 

And turns no more his head ; 
Because he knows a frightful fiend 

Doth close behind him tread. 

Coleridge. 

And what art thou ? I know, but dare not speak ! 

Shelley. 

Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness. 

Keats. 

The workings of the soul ye fear ; 

Ye fear the power that goodness hath ; 
Ye fear the unseen One ever near, 

Walking his ocean path. Dana. 



FICKLENESS. 



Ev'n as one heat another heat expels, 
Or as one nail by strength drives out another; 
So the remembrance of my former love. 
Is by a newer object quite forgotten. 

Shakespeare. 

How long must women wish in vain 

A constant love to find? 
No art can fickle man retain, 

Or fix a roving mind. 
Yet fondly we ourselves deceive, 

And empty hopes pursue ; 
Though false to others, we believe 

They will to us prove true. 



Shadwell. 

FIDELITY 



Three things a wise man will not tnist, 
The wind, the sunshine of an April day. 
And woman's plighted faith. I have beheld 
The weathercock upon the steeple point 
Steady from morn till eve, and I have seen 
The bees go forth upon an April morn, 
Secure the sunshine will not end in showers: 
But when was woman true ? Southey. 

The dream on the pillow. 

That flits with the day, 
The leaf of the willow 

A breath wears away ; 
The dust on the blossom, 

The spray on the sea ; 
Ay — ask thine own bosom — 

Are emblems of thee. Miss Liutdon. 



Faithful found 
Among the faithless, faithful only he; 
Among innumerable false, unmov'd, 
Unshaken, unseduced, unterrified ; 
His loyalty he kept, his love, his zeal ; 
Nor number, nor example with him wrought 
To swerve from truth, or change his constant 

mind 
Though single. Milton. 

She is as constant as the stars 
That never vary, and more chaste than they. 

Proctor. 

Full many a miserable year hath passed — 
She knows him as one dead, or worse than dead. 
.\nd many a change her varied life hath known, 
But her heart none. Maturin. 



Oh ! if there be an elysium on earth, 

It is this — 
When two that are linked in one heavenly tie. 
Love on through all ills, and love on till they die. 

Moore. 

My heart too firmly trusted, fondly gave 
Itself to all its tenderness a slave ; 
I had no wish but thee, and only thee ; 
I knew no happiness but only while 
Thy love-lit eyes were kindly turned on me. 

Percival. 

Within her heart was his image. 
Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last 

she beheld him, 
Only more beautiful made by his death-like silence 

and absence. Longfellow. 



FLOWERS. 



Oh ! what tender thoughts beneath 
Those silent flowers are lying. 

Hid within the mystic wreath 

My love hath kissed in tying. Moore. 



A violet by a mossy stone, 

Half-hidden from the eye. 
Fair as a star, when only one 

Is shining in the sky. Wordsworth. 



520 



CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 



O flowers, 
That never will in other climate grow, 
My early visitation, and my last 
At ev'n, while I bred up with tender hand 
From the first opening bud, and gave ye names, 
Who now shall rear ye to the sun, or rank 
Your tribes, and water from th' ambrosial fount ? 

Milton. 

'Twas a lovely thought to mark the hours 

As they floated in light away, 
By the opening and the folding flowers 

That laugh to the summer's day : 
Oh ! let us live, so that flower by flower, 

Shutting in turn, may leave 
A lingerer still for the sunset hour, 

A charm for the shaded eve. 

Mrs. Henians. 



Flowers are love's truest language. 



Benjamin. 

FORQIVENESS 



Bring flowers to crown the cup and lute — 

Brmg flowers — the bride is near ; 
Bring flowers to soothe the captive's cell, 

Bring flowers to strew the bier ! 

Miss Landon. 

There is to me 
A daintiness about these early flowers. 
That touches me like poetry. They blow out 
With such a simple loveliness among 
The common herbs of pasture, and they breathe 
Their lives so unobtrusively, like hearts 
Whose beatings are too gentle for the world. 

Willis. 

Sweet flower, thou tell'st how hearts 
As pure and tender as thy leaf — as low 
And humble as thy stem — will surely know 

The joy that peace imparts. 

Pcrcival. 



Let us no more contend, nor blame 
Each other, blam'd enough elsewhere, but strive. 
In offices of love, how we may lighten 
Each other's burden, in our share of woe. 

Milton. 



'Tis easier for the generous to forgive. 
Than for offence to ask it 

Thomson. 

Young men soon give, and soon forget affronts ; 
Old age is slow in both. 

Addison. 



So soon may I follow 

When friendships decay. 
And from love's shining circle 

The gems drop away. 
When true hearts lie withered 

And fond ones are flown. 
Oh ! who would inhabit 

This bleak world alone? 



That curse shall be — forgiveness I 

Byron. 
Thou hast the secret of my heart — 
Forgive, be generous and depart. 



Scott. 



And what is friendship but a name, 

A charm, that lulls to sleep ; 
A shade that follows wealtli or fame, 

And leaves the wretch to weep? Goldsmith. 

Friends are like melons. Shall I tell you why ? 
To find one good, you must a hundred try. 

Manuet. 



They who forgive most shall be most forgiven. 

Bailey 

If I do wrong, forgive me or I die; 

And thou wilt then be wretcheder than I ;— 

The unforgiving than the unforgiven. 

Bailey. 

FRIENDSHIP. 

So we grew together. 
Like to a double cherry, seeming parted, 
But yet a union in partition, 
Two lovely berries moulded on one stem ; 
So, with two seeming bodies, but one heart. 

Shakespear.-. 

Let others boast them as they may, 

Of spirits kind and true. 
Whose gentle words and loving smiles 

Have cheered them on life through ; 
And though they count of friends a host. 

To bless the paths they've trod. 
These are the ones have loved tne most. 

My mother, wife, and God. 

Coe. 



Moore. 



GOD. 



God, who oft descends to visit men 
Unseen, and through their habitations walks 
To mark their doings. Milton. 

God into the hands of their deliverer 
Puts invincible might, 

To quell the mighty of the earth, the oppressor- 
The brute and boist'rous force of violent men. 

Milton. 



Where'er thou art, He is ; the eternal mind 
Acts through all places; is to none confined; 
Fills ocean, earth, and air, and all above, 
And through the universal mass does move. 

Drvden. 

All things that are on earth shall wholly pass away. 
Except the love of God, which shall live and last 
for aye. Bryant. 



CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 



521 



Thy great name 
In all its awful brevity, hath nought 
Unholy breeding in it, but doth bless 
Rather the tongue that uses it; for me, 
I ask no higher office than to fling 
My spirit at thy feet, and cry thy name, 
God ! through eternity. 

Bailey. 



The hand of God 
Has written legibly that man may know 
The glory of the Maker. Ware. 

The depth 
Of Glory in the attributes of God, 
Will measure the capacities of mind ; 
And as the angels differ, will the ken 
Of gifted spirits glorify Him more. Willis 



GRIEF. 



Oppressed with grief, oppressed with care, 
A burden more than I can bear, 

I sit me down and sigh ; 
O life ! thou art a galling load. 
Along a rough, a weary road, 

To wretches such as I. Burns. 

Thy grief unmans me, and I fain would meet 
That which approaches, as a brave man yields 
With proud submission to a mightier foe. 

Mrs. Hemans. 

I need not say how, one by one, 

Love's flowers have dropped from off love's 
chain, 
Enough to say that they are gone, 
And that they cannot bloom again. 

I^Iiss Landon. 



I hush my heart, I hide my tears, 

Lest he my grief should guess 
Who, watched thee, darling, day and night, 

With patient tenderness; 
'Twould grieve his generous soul to see 

This anguish wild and vain, 
And he would deem it sin in me 

To wish thee back again ; 
But oh ! when I am all alone, 

I cannot calm my grief. 

Mrs. Osgood. 

We look before and after, 
And pine for what is not ; 

Our sincerest laughter 

With some pain is fraught. 



Shelley. 



HAPPINESS. 



All the good we have rests in the mind ; 

By whose proportions only we redeem 
Our thoughts from out confusion, and do find 

The measures of ourselves, and of our powers: 
And that all happiness remains confined 

Within the kingdom of this breast of ours. 

Daniel. 

The spider's most attenuated thread 
Is cord — is cable — to man's tender tie 
On earthly bliss: it breaks at every breeze. 

Young. 

We were not made to wander on the wing: 
But if we would be happy, we must bring 
Our buoyed hearts to a plain and simple school. 

Percival. 



True happiness is not the growth of earth, 

The soil is fruitless if you seek it there : 
'Tis an exotic of celestial birth. 

And never blooms but in celestial air. 
Sweet plant of paradise ! its seeds are sown 

In here and there a breast of heavenly mould. 
It rises slow, and buds, but ne'er was known 

To blossom here — the climate is too cold. 

Sheridan. 

There conies 
For ever something between us and what 
We deem our happiness. Byron. 

True happiness (if understood) 
Consists alone in doing good. 

Sotnen'ille. 



The common ingredients of health and Ion 

are 
Great temp' ranee, open air. 
Easy labor, little care. Sir P. Sidney. 



HEALTH 

■ life 



The surest road to health, say what they will, 
Is never to suppose we shall be ill. 
Most of those evils we poor mortals know 
From doctors and imagination flow. Churchill. 



HEART. 



Father of spirits, hear ! 
Look on the inmost heart to thee reveal'd. 
Look on the fountain of the burning tear. 

Mrs Hemans. 



Heaven's Sovereign spares all beings but himself 
That hideous sight — a naked, human heart ! 

Young. 
And power sublime is that of heart. Austin. 



522 



CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 



The heart is like the sky a part of heaven, 

But changes, night and day, too, like the sky; 
Now o'er it clouds and thunder must be driven, 

And darkness and destruction, as on high ; 
But when it hath been scorch' d and pierced and 
riven. 
Its storms expire in water-drops ; the eye 
Pours forth, at last, the heart's blood turn'd to tears. 

Byron. 
To me she gave her heart — the all 
Which tyranny cannot enthral. Byron. 



I am not old — though time has set 

His signet on my brow. 
And some faint furrows there have met. 

Which care may deepen now ; — 
For in my heart a fountain flows, 
And round it pleasant thoughts repose, 
And sympathies and feelings high 
Spring like the stars on evening sky. 

Benjamin. 
A woman's heart, that touch of heaven. 

Burt. 



HEAVEN. 



Ye stars ! which are the poetry of heaven ; 
If in your bright leaves we would read the fate 
Of men and empires — 'tis to be forgiven. 
That in our aspirations to be great. 
Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, 
And claim a kindred with you ; for ye are 
A beauty and a mystery, and create 
In us such love and reverence from afar. 
That fortune, fame, power, life, have named 
themselves a star. Byron. 



I cannot be content with less than Heaven : 
O Heaven, I love thee ever ! sole and whole, 
Living, and comprehensive of all life; 
Thee, agy world, thee, universal Heaven, 
And heavenly universe ! 

Bailey. 

Heaven asks no surplice round the heart that feels. 
And all is holy where devotion kneels. 

Holmes. 



HOME. 



The angry word suppressed, the taunting thoughts; 

Subduing and subdued, the petty strife, 

Which cloudi the color of domestic life, 

The sober comfort, all the peace which springs 

From the large aggregate of little things ; 

On tliese small cares of — daughter — wife — or friend. 

The almost sacred joys of home depend. 

Hantmh Moore. 
We leave 
Our home in youth — no matter to what end — 
Study —or strife — or pleasure, or what not ; 
And coming back in few short years, we find 
All as we le 't it outside ; the old elms. 
The house, the grass, gates, and latchet's self- 
same click : 
But lift that latchet — all is changed as doom. 

Bailey. 



His warm but simple home where he enjoys 
With her who shares his pleasure and his heart, 
Sweei converse. 

Cowper. 

Give me my home, to quiet dear, 

Where hours untold and peaceful move ; 

So fate ordain I sometimes there 
May hear the voice of him I love. 

Mrs. Opie. 

The land was beautiful — 
Fair rose the spires, and gay the buildings were, 
And rich the plains, like dreams of blessed isles ; 
But when I heard my country's music breathe, 
I sighed to be among her wilds again ! 

Maturin. 



HOPE. 



Work without hope draws nectar in a sieve. 
And hope without an object cannot live. 

Coleridge. 
Hope on — -hope ever ! — by the sudden springing 
Of green leaves which the winter hid so long ; 
And by the burst of free, triumphant singing, 
.Vrter cold silent months the woods among; 
And by the rending of the frozen chains. 
Which bound the glorious river of the plains, 
Hope on — hope ever. Mrs. Hemans. 

God wills, man hopes ; in common souls 

Hope is but vague and undefined, 
Till from the i)oet's tongue ihe message rolls 
A blessing to his kind. Lowell. 

How dis ippointment tracks 
The steps of hope ! Miss Landon. 



Though at times my spirit fails me, 

And the bitter tear-drops fall, 
Though my lot is hard and lonely, 
Yet I hope — I hope through all. 

Mrs. Norton. 
Come then, oh care ! oh grief! oh woe ! 

Oh troubles ! mighty in your kind, 
I have a balm ye ne'er can know, 

A hopeful mind. Vane. 
Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to 

follow 
Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of the 
Saviour. Longfellow. 

Hopes, that beckon with delusive gleams, 
Till the eve dances in the void of dreams 

Holmes. 



CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 



523 



HUMILITY. 



Humility, tliat low, sweet root, 

From u hich all heavenly virtues shoot. Moore. 

The meek mountain daisy, with delicate crest, 
And the violet whose eye told the heaven of her 

breast. 3Trs. Sigourney. 

Lowliness is the base of every virtue : 
And he who goes the lowest, builds the safest. 
My God keeps all his pity for the proud. Bailey. 



Humility mainly becometh the converse of man 

with his Maker, 
But oftentimes it seemeth out of place of man with 

man ; 
Render unto all men their due, but remember thou 

also art a man, 
And cheat not thyself of the reverence which is 

owing to thy reasonable being. 

Tupper. 



HUSBANDS. 



Look here upon this picture, and on this: 
The counterfeit presentment of two brothers: 
See, what a grace was seated on this brow ; 
Hyperion's curls; the front of Jove himself; 
An eye, like Mars, to threaten or command; 
A station, like the herald Mercury, 
New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill ; 
A combination, and a form indeed. 
Where every god did seem to set his seal, 
To give the world assurance of a man ! 
This was your husband — Look you now what 
follows ; 



There is your husband — like a mildewed ear 
Blasting his wholesome brother. Shakespeare. 

To all married men be this caution. 
Which they should duly tender as their life. 
Neither to doat too much, nor doubt a wife. 

Masnnger. 

A narrow-minded husband is a thief 
To his own fame, and his preferment too ; 
He shuts his parts and fortunes from the world ; 
While from the popular \ote and knowledge. 
Men rise to employment in the state. Shirley. 



IDLENESS. 



I would not waste my spring of youth 
In idle dalliance : I would plant rich seeds. 
To blossom in my manhood, and bear fruit 
When I am old. Hillkouse. 

Tax not my sloth that I 

Fold my arras beside the brook ; 

Each cloud that floateth in the sky 

Writes a letter in my book. Emerson. 



Long has it been my fate to hear 
The slave of mammon, with a sneer, 

My indolence reprove ; 
Ah, little knows he of the care, 
The toil, the hardship that I bear. 
While lolling in my elbow-chair. 

And seeming scarce to move. 



Allston. 



IMMORTALITY 

Cold in the dust this perished heart may lie. 
But that which warmed it once shall never die. 

Campbell. 

O, listen man ! 
A voice with within us speaks that startling word, 
" Man, thou shalt never die ! " Celestial voices 
Hymn it unto our souls : according harps. 
By angel fingers touched, when the mild stars 
Of morning sang together, sound forth still 
The song of our great immortality. 

Dana. 



It is wonderful, 
That man should hold himself so haughtily. 
And talk of an immortal name, and feed 
His proud ambition with such daring hopes 
As creatures of a more eternal nature 
Alone should form. Percival. 

Press onward through each varying hour ; 

Let no weak fears thy course delay; 
Immortal being ! feel thy power. 

Pursue thy bright and endless way. 

Norton. 



INDUSTRY. 



The chiefest action for a man of spirit. 
Is never to be out of action ; we should think 
The soul was never put into the body. 
Which has so many rare and curious pieces 
Of mathematical motion, to stand still. 
Virtue is ever sowing of her seeds. 

Webster. 

Work for some good, be it ever so slowly ; 
Cherish some flower, 1-e it ever so lowly; 
Labor — all labor is noble and holy. Mrs. Osgood. 



Chide me not, laborious band, 
For the idle flowers 1 brought ; 

Every aster in my hand 

Goes home loaded with a thought. 

Emerson. 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow. 

Is our destined end or way ; 
But to act, that each to-morrow 

Find us farther than to-day. 

Longfellow. 



624 



CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 



JEALOUSY. 



Ah no ! my love knows no vain jealousy ; 
The rose that blooms and lives but in the sun, 
Asks not what other flowers he shines upon, 
If he but shine on her. Atme C. Lynch. 

In gentle love the sweetest joys we find — 
Yet even those joys, dire jealousy molests, 
And blackens each fair image in our breasts. 

Lytlleton. 

Hence, jealousy ; thou fatal lying fiend, 
Thou false seducer of our hearts, be gone ! 

C. Johnson. 



To doubt's an injury; to suspect a friend 
Is breach of friendship : jealousy's a seed 
Sown but in vicious minds ; prone to distrust. 
Because apt to deceive. 

Lansdown. 

Her maids were old, and if she took a new one, 
You might be sure she was a perfect fright : 
She did this during even her husband's life — 
I recommend as much to every wife. 

Byrot. 



JUSTICE. 



Ay, justice, who evades her? 

Her scales reach every heart ; 
The action and the motive, 

She weigheth each apart ; 
And none who swerve from right or truth 

Can 'scape her penalty ! Mrs. Hale. 

Good my liege, for justice 
All place a temple, and all season, summer ! 
Do you deny my justice ? Bulwer. 



Remember, One, a judge of righteous men. 

Swore to spare Sodom if she held but ten ! 

Holmes. 
A happy lot be thine, and larger light 

Await thee there ; for thou hast bound thy will. 
In cheerful homage to the rule of right. 

And lovest all, and doest good for ill. Bryant. 

Man is unjust, but God is just ; and finally justice 
Triumphs. Longfellow. 



KINDNESS. 



(ienerous as brave, 
Affection, kindness, the sweet offices 
Of love and duty, were to him as needful 
As his daily bread. Rogers. 

I may be kind, 
And meet with kindness, yet be lonely still. 

Miss Landon. 

Both men and women belie their nature 
When they are not kind. Bailey. 



Think me not unkind and rude 

That I walk alone in grove and glen ; 

I go to the god of the wood 
To fetch his word to men. 

Emerson. 

Speak gently ! Love doth whisper low 
The vows that true hearts bind; 

And gently friendship's accents flow ; 
Affection's voice is kind. Bates. 



KISS. 



Oh! let me live for ever on those lips! 
The nectar of the gods to these is tasteless. 

Dry den. 

Soft child of love — thou balmy bliss, 
Inform me, O delicious kiss ! 
Why thou so suddenly art gone, 
Lost in the moment thou art won ? 

iVolcot. 

A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth and love. 

Bvron. 



My heart can kiss no heart but thine. 
And if these lips but rarely pine 

In the pale abstinence of sorrow. 
It is tliat nightly I divine. 
As I this world-sick soul recline, 

I shall be with thee ere the morrow. 

Bailey. 

And with a velvet lip print on his brow. 
Such language as the tongue hath never spoken. 

Mrs. Sigoiirney. 



KNOWLEDGE. 



wad some power the giftie gie us 
To see oursels as others see us I 

It wad frae mony a blunder free us. 

An' foolish notion. Bums. 

1 know is all the mourner saith — 
Knowledge by suffering entereth — 
As life is perfected by death. 

Mrs. Browning. 



Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers. 

And I linger more and more. 
And the individual withers, 

And the world is more and more. 

Tennyson. 

Oh ! there is nought on earth worth being known. 
But God and our own souls. 

Bailcv. 



CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 



525 



LABOR. 



Give me the fair one, in country or city. 
Whose home and its duties are dear to her heart, 
Who cheerfully warbles some rustical ditty, 
While plung the needle with exquisite art. 

Woodivorth. 



- Labor is worship" — the robin is singing: 
' Labor is worship " — the wild bee is ringing, 
listen ! that eloquent whisper upspringing, 
Speaks to thy soul out of nature's great heart. 

Mrs. Osgood. 

LIBERTY 



Labor is life ! — 'T is the still water faileth ; 
Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth ; 
Keep the watch wound, or the dark rust as- 
saileth. Mrs. Osgood. 

Here, brothers, secure from all turmoil and danger 
We reap what we sow, for the soil is our own ; 

We spread hospitality's board for the stranger, 
And care not a fig for the king on his throne ; 

We never know want, for we live by our labor, 
And in it contentment and happiness find. 

Morris. 



For freedom's battle, once begun, 
Bequeathed by bleeding sire to son. 
Though baffled oft, is ever won. Byron. 

There is a spirit working in the world. 
Like to a silent, subterranean fire ; 



Yet ever and anon some monarch hurled 
Aghast and pale, attests its fearful ire : 

The dungeoned nations now once more respire 
The keen and stirring air of liberty ! 

Hill. 



loving 



LOVE. 

black-browed 



Come, gentle night ; come 

night ; 

Give me my Romeo : and, when he shall die, 
Take him and cut him out in little stars, 
And he will make the face of heaven so fine, 
That all the world will be in love with night. 
And pay no worship to the garish sun. 

Shakespeare. 

Doubt thou the stars are fire ; 

Doubt that the sun doth move ; 
Doubt truth to be a liar ; 

But never doubt I love. 

Shakespeare. 

Her hand he seized, and to a shady bank, 
Thick overhead with verdant roof embowered. 
He led her nothing loath ; flowers were the couch, 
Pansies, and violets, and asphodel, 
And hvacinth, earth's freshest, softest lap. 

Milton. 

My heart's so full of joy, 
That I shall do some wild extravagance 
Of love in public; and the foolish world. 
Which knows not tenderness, will think me mad. 

Dryden. 

The maid that loves 
Goes out to sea upon a shattered plank. 
And puts her trust in miracles for safety. 

Young. 

If we love one another, 
Nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mis- 
chances may happen. 

Longfellow. 



They sin who tell us love can die : 
With love all other passions fly. 
All others are but vanity ; 
Its holy flame forever burneth. 
From heaven it came, to heaven returneth. 

Southey. 

Oh ! I would ask no happier bed. 

Than the chill wave my love lies under : 

Sweeter to rest together dead, 
Far sweeter than to live asunder. 

Moore. 

There's not a look, a word of thine, 

My soul hath e'er forgot ; 
Thou ne'er hast bid a ringlet shine. 
Nor giv'n thy locks one graceful twine. 

Which I remember not. 

Moore. 

God gives us love. Something to love 
He lends us ; but when love is grown 

To ripeness, that on which it throve 
Falls off, and love is left alone. 

Tennyson. 

True love is at home on a carpet, 

And mightily likes his ease — 
And true love has an eye for a dinner, 

And starves beneath shady trees. 
His wing is the fan of a lady. 

His foot's an invisible thing. 
And his arrow is tipped with a jewel. 

And shot from a silver string. 

Willis. 



This is the state of man ; to-day he puts forth 
The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms, 
And bears his blushing honors thick upon him ; 
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost. 



MAN. 

And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely 
His greatness is a ripening, nips his root ; 

I And then he falls as I do. 

I Shakespeare. 



526 



CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 



I dare do all that may become a man ; 
Who dares do more, is none. 

Shakespeare. 

Yes, thou mayst sneer, but still I own 
A love that spreads from zone to zone : 
No time the sacred fire can smother ! 
Where breathes the man, I hail the brother. 
Man ! how sublime — from Heaven his birth — 
The God's bright Image walks the earth ! 
And if, at times, his footstep strays, 
I pity where I may not j^raise. 

Bulwer. 



Through all disguise, form, place or name 
Beneath the flaunting robe of sin, 

MARRIAGE. 



Through poverty and squallid shame, 

Thou lookest on the man within : 
On man, as man, retaining yet, 

Howe'er debased, and soiled, and dim. 
The crown upon his forehead set — 
The immortal gift of God to him.. 

Whittier. 
Profounder, profounder, 

Man's sj)irit must dive: 
To his aye-rolling orbit 

No goal will arrive. 
The heavens that now draw him 

With sweetness untold, 
Once found — for new heavens 
He spurneth the old. 

Emerson. 



Say, shall I love the fading beauty less. 

Whose spring-tide radiance has been wholly 
mine ? 
No — come what will, thy steadfast truth I'll 
bless ; 
In youth, in age, thine own — for ever thine. 

A. A. Watts. 



Although my heart, in earlier youth, 
Might kindle with more wild desire. 

Believe me, it has gained in truth 
Much more than it has lost in fire ; 

The flame now warms my inmost core, 
That then but sparkled on thy brow : 

MOTHER 

A mother's love — how sweet the name ! \ 

What is a mother's love? 
A noble, pure, and tender flame. 

Enkindled from above. 
To bless a heart of earthly mould ; 
The warmest love that can grow cold ; 

This is a mother's love. 

Montgomery. 

She was my friend — I had but her — no more. 
No other upon earth — and as for heaven, 
I am as they that seek a sign, to whom 
No sign is given. My mother ! Oh, my mother ! 1 

Taylor. ' 

MUSIC. 

Music has charms to soothe the savage breast, 
To soften rocks, and bend the knotted oak. 



And though I seemed to love thee more. 
Yet oh, I love thee better now. Moore. 

Then come the wild weather — come sleet or comt 

snow, 
We will stand by each other, however it blow ; 
Oppression and sickness, and sorrow and pain. 
Shall be to our true love as links to the chain. 

Longfellow. 

While other doublets deviate here and there, 
What secret handcuff binds that pretty pair ? 
Compactest couple ! pressing side to side, — 
Ah ! the white bonnet — that reveals the bride ! 

Holmes. 



My mother ! at that holy name 

Within my bosom there's a gush 
Of feeling which no time can tame, 
A feeling which for years of fame 

I would not, could not crush ! Morris. 

And while my soul retains the power 

To think upon each faded year. 
In every bright or shadowed hour. 

My heart shall hold mv mother dear. 
The hills may tower — the waves may rise, 

And roll between my home and me ; 
Yet shall my quenchless memories 

Turn with undying love to thee. Clark. 



Congreve. 

So far was heard the mighty knell. 
The stag sprung up on Cheviot Fell, 
Spread his broad nostrils to the wind, 
Listed before, aside, behind ; 
And quaked among the mountain fern. 
To hear that sound so dull and stern. 

Scott. 



There's music in the sighing of a reed; 
There's music in the gushing of a rill ; 
There's music in all things, if men had ears; 
Their earth is but an echo of the spheres. Byron. 

There's music in the forest leaves. 

When sunmier winds are there, 
And in the lauijh of forest girls. 

That braid their sunny hair. 
The first wild bird that drinks the dew. 

From violets of the spring. 
Has music in his song, and in 

The fluttering of his wing. Halleck. 



CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 



627 



Rich, though poor! 
My low-rooted cottage is this hour a heaven ; 
Music is in it — and tiie song she sings, 
Tliat sweet-voiced wife of mine arrests tlie ear 
Of my young child, awake upon her knee. 

Willis. 



And wheresoever, in his rich creation, 

Sweet music breathes — in wave, or bird, or soul, 

'Tis but the faint and far reverberation 

Of that grand tune to which .the planets roll. 



Mrs. Osgood. 



NIGHT. 



Night, sable goddess ! from her ebon throne. 
In rayless majesty, now stretches forth 
Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumb'ring world. 
Silence, how dead ! and darkness, how profound ! 
Nor eye, nor list'ning ear, an object finds; 
Creation sleeps. 'Tis as the gen'ral pulse 
Of life stood still, and nature made a pause; 
An awful pause! prophetic of her end Young. 

The night has come, but not too soon; 

And sinking silently, 
All silently, the little moon 

Drops down behind the sky. Longfellow. 



'Tis dark abroad. The majesty of night 
Bows down superbly from her utmost height, 
Stretches her starless plumes across the world. 
And all the banners of the wind are furled. 

Ncal. 

'Tis now the very witching time of night ; 
When churchyards yawn, and hell itseli breathes out 
Contagion to this world ; now could I drink hot 

blood, 
And do such business as the bitter day 
Would quake to look on. 

Shakespeare. 



OPINION. 



How much there is self-will would do, 
Were it not for the dire dismay 

That bids ye shrink, as ye suddenly think 
Of " what will my neighbors say ?" 

Eliza Cook. 

Yet in opinions look not always back; 

Your wake is nothing, mind the coming track; 



Leave what you've done for what you have to do. 
Don't be " consistent," but be simply true. 

Holmes. 

He loved his kind, but sought the love of few, 
And valued old opinions more than new. 

Benjamin. 



OPPORTUNITY. 



There is a tide in the affairs of men, 
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune ; 
Omitted, all the voyage of their life 
Is bound in shallows, and in miseries. 



On such a full sea are we now afloat, 

And we must take the current when it serves, 

Or lose our ventures. 

Shakespeare. 



PARTING. 



Good night, good night ! parting is such sweet 

sorrow 
That I shall say — good night till it be morrow. 

Shakespeare. 

There are two souls whose equal flow 
In gentle streams so calmly run, 

That when they part — they part ! — ah, no ! 
They cannot part — those souls are one. 

Barton. 

I must leave thee, lady sweet ! 
Months shall waste before we meet. 
Winds are fair, and sails are spread, 
Anchors leave their ocean bed ; 
Ere this shining day grows dark. 
Skies shall gird my shoreless bark ; 
Through thy tears, O lady mine. 
Read thy lover's parting line. 

Hohnes. 



Well — peace to thy heart, though another's it be. 
And health to thy cheek, though it bloom not for 
me. 

Moore. 

'Twas bitter then to rend the heart 

With the sad thought that we must part : 

And, like some low and mournful spell, 
To whisper but one word — farewell. 

Benjamin. 

When forced to part from those we love, 

Though sure to meet to-morrow ; 
We yet a kind of anguish prove 

And feel a touch of sorrow. 
But oh ! what words can paint the fears 

When from those friends we sever. 
Perhaps to i)art for months — for years — 

Perhaps to part forever. 



528 



CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 



PATRIOTISM. 



How bleep tlie brave, who sink to rest, 
By all their country's wishes blest ! 
When spring, with dewy fingers cold, 
Returns to deck their hallowed mould, 
She there shall dress a sweeter sod, 
Than fancy's feet have ever trod. 
ISy fairy hands their knell is rung, 
By forms unseen their dirge is sung, 
There honor comes, a pilgrim gray, 
To bless the turf that wraps their clay. 
And freedom shall awhile rej^air, 
To dwell a weeping hermit there. Collins. 

Our country first, their glory and their pride, 
Land of their hopes, land where their fathers died. 
When in the right, they'll keep thy honor bright. 
When in the wrong, they'll die to set it right. 

Fields. 



Then none was for a party ; 

Then all were for the state ; 
Then the great man helped the poor. 

And the poor man loved the great ; 
Then lands were fairly portioned ; 

Then spoils were fairly sold ; 
The Romans were like brothers 

In the brave days of old. 

Macau lay. 

This was the noblest Roman of them all ; 

All the conspirators, save only he. 

Did that they did in envy of great 

Caesar ; 
He, only, in a general honest thought, 
And common good to all, made one of 

them. 

Shakespeare. 



PEN. 



In days of yore, the poet's pen 

From wing of bird was ])lundered. 
Perhaps of goose, but now and then, 

From Jove's own eagle sundered. 
But now, metallic pens disclose 

Alone the poet's numbers; 
In iron inspiration glows. 

Or with the poet slumbers. /. Q. Adams. 

The brave are ever tender. 
And feel the miseries of suffering virtue. 

Martyn. 

Not always is the heart unwise, 

Nor pity idly born, 
If even a passing stranger sighs 

For those who do not mourn. 

Wordsworth. 



Beneath the rule of men entirely great, 

The pen is mightier than the sword. Behold 

The arch enchanter's wand ! itself a nothing ! 

But taking sorcery from the master hand. 

To paralyze the Csesars, and to strike 

The loud earth breathless I Buhuer. 

That mighty instrument of little men. 

Byron. 



PITY. 



Pity thee ! So I do ! 
I pity the dumb victim at the altar — 
But does the robed priest for his pity falter? 

Willis. 

Oh, brother man ! fold to thy heart thy brother ; 
Where pity dwells, the peace of God is there. 

Whitiier. 



Men who their duties know. 
But know their rights, and knowing, dare maintain. 

Sir W. Jones. 

Believe me, friends, loud tumults are not laid 
With half the easiness that they are raised. 

Ben Jonson. 

Dull rogues affect the politician's part, 
And learn to nod, and smile, and shrug with art; 
Who nothing has to lose, the war bewails; 
And he who nothing pays, at taxes rails. 

Congreve. 

PORTRAIT 

I've gazed on many a brighter face. 

But ne'er on one for years. 
Where beaut)- left so soft a trace 

As it had left on hers ; 
But who can paint the spell that wove 

A brightness round the whole ! 



POLITICS. 

The seals of office glitter in his eyes ; 

He climbs, he pants, he grasps them ; at his heels, 

Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends, 

And, with a de.xtrous jerk, soon twists him down. 

And wins them, but to lose them in his turn. 

Cotvper. 

Watch thou, and wake when others be asleep. 
To pry into the secrets of the state. 

.Shakespeare. 

Commonwealths by virtue ever stood. 

Sir J. Davies. 



'T would take an angel from the skies 

To paint the immortal soul — 
To trace the light, the inborn grace. 
The spirit sparkling o'er her face. 

Mrs. Welby. 
Is she not more than painting can express? 

Rowe. 



Il 



CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 



529 



Waking, I must dream no more, 
Night has lovelier dreams in store. 
Picture dear, farewell to thee, 
Be thine image left with me, 

Miss Landou. 

The picture, in my memory now. 
Is fair as morn, and fresh as May ! 

Willis. 

POVERTY 

His raw-boned cheeks, through penury and pine, 
Were shrunk into his jaws, as he did never dine. 

Spenser. 

O grant nie. Heaven, a middle state, 
Neither too humble nor too great ; 
More than enough for nature's ends, 
With something left to treat my friends. 

Mallet. 

Few save the poor feel for the poor ; 

The rich know not how hard 
It is to be of needful rest 

And needful food debarred: 
They know not of the scanty meal, 

With small, pale faces round ; 
No fire upon the cold, damp hearth 

When snow is on the ground. Miss Landon. 



A still, sweet, placid, moonlight face. 

And slightly nonchalant. 
Which seems to claim a middle place 

Between one's love and aunt. 
Where childhood's star has left a ray 

In woman's sunniest sky. 
As morning dew and blushing day 

On fruit and blossom lie. Holmes. 



What doth the poor man's son inherit? 

Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, 
A hardy frame, a hardier spirit ; 

King of two hands, he does his part 

In every useful toil and art ; 
A heritage, it seems to me, 
A king might wish to hold in fee. 

Lowell. 

O, poor man's son, scorn not thy state; 
There is worse weariness than thine, 

In merely being rich and great ; 
Toil only gives the soul to shine, 
And makes rest fragrant and benign ; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

Worth being poor to hold in fee. 

Lowell. 



PRAYER. 



Any heart, turned Godward, feels more joy 
In one short hour of prayer, than e'er was raised 
Ey all the feasts on earth since their foundation. 

Bailey. 

In desert wilds, in midnight gloom ; 

In grateful joy, in trying pain ; 
In laughing youth, or nijh the tomb; 

Oh ! when is prayer unheard or vain ? 

Eliza Cook. 

There are God and peace above thee : 

Wilt thou languish in despair? 
Tread thy griefs beneath thy feet, 

Scale the walls of heaven with prayer — 
'Tis the key of the apostle. 

That opens heaven from below ; 
'Tis the ladder of the patriarch, 

Whereon angels come and go ! 

Miss Lvnch. 



They had no stomach, o'er a grace to nod, 
Nor time enough to offer thanks to God ; 
That might be done, they wisely knew, 
When they had nothing else to do. 

Wolcot. 

O, the precious privilege 

To the pious given — 
Sending by the dove of prayer 

Holy words to heaven ! 
Arrows from the burning sun 

Cleave the quivering air — 
Swifter, softlier, surer on, 

Speeds the dove of prayer, 
Bearing from the parted lips 

Words of holy love, 
Warm as from the heart they gushed, 

To the throne above ! 

Mrs. Hale. 



PRIDE. 



Pride (of all others the most dangerous fault) 
Proceeds from want of sense, or want of thought, 
The men who labor and digest things most, 
Will be much apter to despond than boast ; 
For if yotir author be profoundly good, 
'T will cost you dear before he's understood. 

Roscommon. 

What is pride? a whizzing rocket 
That would emulate a star. 

Wordsworth. 
34 



The fiend that man harries 

Is love of the Best, 
Yawns the Pit of the Dragon 

Lit by rays from the Blest; 
The Lethe of Nature 

Can't trance him again. 
Whose soul sees the Perfect 

Which his eyes seek in vain. 
Pride ruined the angels. 

Their shame them restores. 

Emerson. 



530 



CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 



Oh ! ask not a homo in the mansions of pride, 
Where marble chines out in the pillars and walls; 

Though the roof be of gold it is brilliantly cold, 
And joy may not be found in its torch-lighted 
halls. Eliza Cook. 



Yes^ — the same sin that overthrew the angels, 
And of all sins most easily besets 
Mortals the nearest to the angelic nature : 
The vile are only vain ; the great are proud. 

Bvron. 



PROPOSAL. 



As letters some hand has invisibly traced, 

When held to the flame will steal out to the 
sight, 
So, many a feeling that long seemed effaced. 
The warmth of a meeting like this brings to 
light ! Moore. 

Whither my heart is gone, there follows my hand, 

and not elsewhere. 
For where the heart goes before, like a lamp, and 

illumines the pathway, 
Manv things are made clear, that else lie hidden 

in darkness. Longfellow. 

" Yes !" I answered you last night ; 
" No !" this nioniing, sir, I say! 
Flowers seen by candle-light, 
Will not look the same by day. 

Afrs. Browning. 



Look how the blue-eyed violets 
Glance love to one another ! 

Their little leaves are whispering 
The vows they may not smother. 

The birds are pouring passion forth. 
In every blossoming tree — 

If flowers and birds talk love, lady, 
Why not we ? 



Read. 



And over all the happy earth, 
Love floweth — like a river — 

True love whose glory fills the sky 
For ever and for ever. 

The ]>ale hearts of the silver stars 
Throb, too, as mine to thee — 

All things delight in love, lady, 
Why not we ? 



Read. 



PROVIDENCE. 



lo 



Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well ; 
When our deej) plots do pall : and that should 

teach us, 
There's a divinity that shapes our ends. 
Rough-hew them how we will. 

Shakespeare. 

The ways of heaven are dark and intricate, 
Puzzled in mazes, and perplexed with errors ; 
Our understanding traces them in vain. 
Lost and bewildered in the fruitless search ; 
Nor sees with how much art the windings run, 
Nor where the regular confusion ends. 

Addison. 

Who is it, that will doubt . 
The care of heaven ; or think th' immortal 
Pow'rs are slow, 'cause they take the privilege 

PURITY 

Around her shone 
The light of love, the purity of grace. 
The mind, the music breathing from her face; 
The heart whose softness harmonized the whole ; 
And, oh ! that eye was in itself a soul ! 

Byron. 

Her form was fresher than the morning rose 
When the dew wets its leaves; unstained and pure 
As is the lily, or the mountain snow. 

Thomson. 
Let me be pure ! 
Oh ! I wish I was a pure child again. 
When life was calm as is a sister's kiss. 

Bailey. 



choose their own time, when they will send 
their 
Blessings down. Davenant. 

Go, mark the matchless working of the power 
That shuts within the seed the future flower; 
Bids these in elegance of form excel. 
In color these, and those delight the smell. 
Sends nature forth, the daughter of the skies. 
To dance on earth, and charm all human eyes. 

Cowper. 

Thus wisdom speaks 
To man ; thus calls him through this actual form 
Of nature, though religion's fuller noon. 
Through life's bewildering mazes to observe 
.\ Providence in all. 

Ogilvie. 



Pure and undimmed, thy angel smile 

Is mirrored on my dreams, 
Like evening's sunset-girded isle 

Upon her shadowed streams : 
And o'er my thoughts thy vision floats, 
Like melody of spring-bird notes. 
When the blue halcyon gently laves 
His plumage in the flashing waves. 

Benjamin. 

Sweet beauty sleeps upon thy brow, 
.A.nd floats before my eyes : 

As meek and pure as doves art thou, 
Or beings of the skies. 

Robert Morris. 



CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 



531 



Spring has no blossom fairer than thy form ; 

Winter no snow-wreath purer than thy mind; 
The dew-drop trembling to the morning beam 

Is like thy smile, pure, transient, heaven-refined. 

Mrs. Pierson. 



I cannot look upon a star, 
Or cloud that seems a seraph's car, 
Or any form of purity — 
Unmingled with a dream of thee. 

Benjamin. 



RAIN. 



The rain is playing its soft pleasant tune 
Fitfully on the skylight, and the shade 
Of the fast flying clouds across my book 
Passes with delicate change. Willis. 

The April rain — the April rain — 

I hear the pleasant sound ; 
Now soft and still, like little dew, 

Now drenching all the ground. 
Pray tell me why an April shower 

Is pleasanter to see 
Than falling drops of other rain ? 

I'm sure it is to me. Mrs. Oakes Smith. 



Dashing in big drops on the narrow pane. 
And making mournful music for the mind. 
While plays his interlude the wizard wind, 

I hear the singing of the frequent rain. 

Burleigh. 

The later rain — it falls in anxious haste 

Upon the sun-dried fields and branches bare, 

Loosening with searching drops the rigid waste. 
As if it would each root's lost strength repair. 



Jones. 



RAINBOW. 



My heart leaps up when I behold 
A rainbow in the sky ! 

Wordsworth. 

Triumphal arch, that fill'st the sky, 

When storms prepare to part, 
I ask not proud philosoijhy 

To tell nie what thou art. 
Still seem, as to my childhood's sight, 

A midway station given 
For happy spirits to alight, 

Betwixt the earth and heaven ! 

Campbell. 

The rainbow dies in heaven and not on earth. 

Bailey. 



Far up the blue sky a fair rainbow unrolled 
Its soft-tinted pinions of purple and gold ; 
'T was born in a moment, yet quick at its birth. 
It had stretched to the uttermost ends of the earth. 
And fair as an angel, it floated as free, 
With a wing on the earth and a wing on the sea. 

Mrs. Welby. 

O, beautiful rainbow — all woven of light ! — 
There 's not in thy tissue one shadow of night; 
Heaven surely is open when thou dost appear, 
And, bending above thee, the angels draw near, 
And sing — " The rainbow ! the rainbow ! 
The smile of God is here." 

Mrs. Hale. 



REAPERS 

Soon as the morning trembles o'er the sky. 

And, unperceived, unfolds the Sjireading day; 

Before the ripened field the reapers stand. 

In fair array ; each by the lass he loves, 

To bear the rougher part, and mitigate 

By nameless gentle offices her toil. 

At once they stoop ;md swell the lusty sheaves; 

While through their cheerful band the rural talk, 

The rural scandal, and the rural jest. 

Fly harmless, to deceive the tedious time, 

And steal unfelt the sultry hours away. 



Upon my conduct as a whole decide, 
Such trifling errors let my virtues hide ; 
Fail I at meeting ? am I sleepy there ? 
My purse refuse I with the priest to share ? 
Do I deny the poor a helping hand? 
Or stop the wicked women in the strand ? 
Or drink at club beyond a certain pitch? 
Which are your charges? conscience, tell me which? 

Crabbe. 



Thomson. 

RELIGION 

And they believe him' 



I love, I love to see 

Bright steel gleam through the land ; 
'T is a goodly sight, but it must be 

In the reaper's tawny hand. Eliza Cook. 

Around him ply the reapers' band. 
With lightsome heart and eager hand. 

Pringle. 

There is a reaper, whose name is death. 

And with his sickle keen, 
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath. 

And the flowers that grow between. 

Longfellow. 



oh I the lover may 
Distrust that look which steals his soul away ; — 
The babe may cease to think that it can play 
With heaven's rainbow : — alchymists may doubt 
The shining gold their crucible gives out ; 
But faith, fanatic faith, once wedded fast 
To some dear falsehood, hugs it to the last. 

Moore. 



532 



CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 



But this it is, all sects, we see, 
Have watchwords of morahty ; 
Some cry out Venus, others Jove, 
Here 't is religion, there 'I is love ! 

Moore. 
I find the doctors and the sages 
Have difi'ered in all climes and ages, 
And two in fifty scarce agree 
On what is pure morality. 

Moore. 

My altars are the mountains and the ocean, 
Earth, air, stars — all that springs from the great 

whole, 
Who hath produced, and will receive the soul. 

Byron. 



The absolutely true religion is 
In heaven only ; yea, in Deity. 



Bailev. 



Thou didst not leave me, oh my God ! 

Thou wert with tho.se who bore the truth of old 
Into the deserts from the oppressor's rod. 

And made the caverns of the rock their fold ; 
And in the hidden chambers of the dead, 
Our guiding lamp, with fire immortal fed. 

Mrs. Hcnia7is. 

Love never fails ; though knowledge cease. 

Though prophecies decay. 
Love — Christian love, shall still increase, 

Shall still extend her sway. Peter. 

Cling to thy faith — 't is higher than the thought 
That questions of thy faith Mjs. Oakes Smith. 

Man, by nature proud, 
Was taught the Scriptures by the love of praise, 
And grew religious, as he grew in fame. 

Pollock. 



REMEMBRANCE. 



Remember thee ? 
Yea, from the table of my memory 
I'll wipe away all trivial fond records, 
All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past. 
That youth and observation copied there ; 
And thy commandment all alone shall live 
Within the book and volume of my brain. 
Unmixed with baser matter. Shakespeare. 

She placed it sad, with needless fear, 

Lest time should shake my wavering soul — 

Unconscious that her image there 

Held every sense in fast control. Byron. 

Oh ! only those 
Whose souls have felt this one idolatry, 
Can tell how precious is the slightest thing 
Affection gives and hallows ! A dead flower 
Will long be kept, remembrancer of looks 
That made each leaf a treasure. Afiss Landon. 

Thy imaged form I shall survey, 

And, pausing at the view, 
Recall thy gentle smile, and say, 

" Oh, such a maid I knew ! ' ' Bowles. 

Man hath a weary pilgrimage. 

As through the world he wends ; 
On every stage, trom youth to age. 

Still discontent attends ; 
With heaviness he casts his eye 

Upon the road before, 
And still remembers with a sigh. 

The days that are no more. 

Soiithey. 

There's not an hour 
Of day, or dreaming night, but I am with thee : 
There's not a wind but whispers of thy name ; 
And not a flower that sleeps beneath the moon. 
But in its fragrance tells a tale 
Of thee. 

Proctor. 



There's not a look, a word of thine, 

My soul hath e'er forgot ; 
Thou ne'er hast bid a ringlet shine, 
Nor given thy locks one graceful twine. 

Which I remember not. Moore. 

Oh ! these are the words that eternally utter 

The spell that is seldom cast o'er us in vain ; 
With the wings and the wand of a fairy they flutter, 

And draw a charmed circle about us again. 
We return to the spot where our infancy gam- 
bolled ; 
We linger once more in the haunts of our youth ; 
We re-tread where young Passion first stealthily 
rambled, 
And whispers are heard full of Nature and Truth, 
Saying, "Don't you remember ? " 

Eliza Cook. 

When shall we come to that delightful day. 

When each can say to each, " Dost thou remem- 
ber?" 
Let us fill urns with rose-leaves in our May, 
And hive the thrifty sweetness for December ! 

Bulwer. 
Remember me, I pray — but not 

In Flora's gay and blooming hour. 
When every brake hath found its note. 
And sunshine smiles in every flower; 
But when the falling leaf is sere. 

And withers sadly from the tree, 
And o'er the ruins of tlie year 

Cold autumn weeps — remember me. 

Everett. 
Remember me — not, I entreat. 

In scenes of festal week-day joy ; 
For then it were not kind or meet 

Thy thoughts thy pleasures should alloy ; 
But on the sacred Sabbath day. 

And, dearest, on thy bended knee. 
When thou for those thou lov'st dost pray. 
Sweet sister, then remember me. Everett. 



CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 



533 



RICHES. 



Extol not riches then, the toil of fools, 
The wise man's cunibrance, if not snare, more apt 
To slacken virtue, and abate her edge, 
Than prompt her to do aught may merit praise. 

Milton. 

Much learning sliows how little mortals know; 
Much wealth, how little worldlings can enjoy; 
At best, it babies us with endless toys, 
And keeps us children till we drop to dust. 
As monkeys at a mirror stand amazed. 
They fail to find what they so plainly see; 
Thus men, in shining riches, see the face 
Of happiness, nor know it as a shade ; 
But gaze, and toucii, and peep, and peep again. 
And wish, and wonder it is absent still. 

Young. 
The rich man's son inherits lands. 

And piles of brick, and stone, and gold. 
And he inherits soft white hands, 
And tender flesh that fears the cold. 
Nor dares to wear a garment old ; 
A heritage, it seems to me, 
One scarce would wish to hold in fee. Lowell. 



Then let us get money, like bees lay up honey ; 

We build us new hives and store each cell ; 
The sight of our treasure shall yield us great 
pleasure, 
We'll count it, and chink it, and jingle it well. 

Ben Franklin. 
My purse is very slim, and very few 

The acres that I number ; 
But I am seldom stupid, never blue; 
My riches are an honest heart and true. 
And quiet slumber. Sargent. 

The rich man's son inherits cares; 

The bank may break, the factory burn, 
A breath may burst his bubble shares. 

And soft white hands could hardly earn 

A living that would serve his turn. 

Lowell. 
The rich scarce know the sweetest thought 

That gives to gold its worth : 
'Tis in the dwelling of the poor 

This thankful thought has birth. 
When, for a time, the wolf of want 

Is driven from the heartli. Mrs. Hale- 



RUMOR. 



The flying rumors gathered as they rolled. 
Scarce any tale was sooner heard than told. 
And all who told it added something new, 
And all who heard it made enlargement, too, 
In every ear it spread, on every tongue it grew. 

Pope. 

And when they talk of him, they shake tlieir heads. 

And whimper one another in the ear ; 

And he that speaks doth gripe the hearer's wrist; 

Whilst he that hears makes fearful action. 

With wrinkled brows, with nods, with rolling eyes. 

Shakespeare. 



Rumor is a pipe 
Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures ; 
And of so easy and so plain a stop, 
That the blunt monster with uncounted heads. 
The still discordant wavering multitude, 
Can play upon it. 

Shakespeare. 

By holy Paul, they love his grace but lightly. 
That fills his ears with such dissentious rumors. 



SABBATH. 



Oh ! welcome to the wearied earth 

The Sabbath resting comes, 
Gathering the sons of toil and care 

Back to their jieaceful homes; 
And, like a portal to the skies. 

Opens the house of God, 
Where all who seek may come and learn 

The way the Saviour trod. 
But holier to the wanderer seems 

The Sabbath on the deep. 
When on, and on, in ceaseless course, 

The toiling bark must kee]i. 
And not a trace of man appears 

Amid the wilderness 
Of waters — then it comes like dove 

Direct from heaven to bless. 

Mrs. Hale. 



Shakespeare. 



gale, 



Fresh glides the brook and blows the 

Yet yonder halts the quiet mill ; 
The whirring wheel, the rushing sail. 

How motionless and still ! 
Six days stern labor shuts the poor 

From nature's careless banquet-hall ; 
The seventh, an angel opes the door, 

And, smiling, welcomes all! 

Biikver. 

Let us escape ! This is our holiday — 

God's day, devote to rest; and through the 

wood 
We'll wander, and perchance find heavenly 
food. 
So, profitless it shall not pass away. 

Simms. 



5.34 



CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 



Yes, child of suffering, thou may'st well be sure 
He who ordained the Sabbath loves the poor. 

Holmes. 

But, chiefly, man tlie day of rest enjoys. 

Hail, Sabbath ! thee I hail, the poor man's day : 

On other days, the man of toil is doomed 

To eat his joyless bread, lonely, the ground 

Both seat and board — screened from the winter's 

cold 
And summer's heat, by neighboring hedge or tree; 
But on this day, embosomed in his home, 
He shares the frugal meal with those he loves ; 
With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy 
Of giving thanks to God — not thanks of form, 



A word and a grimace, but reverently, 
With covered face and upward earnest eye. 
Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day. 
The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe 
The morning air pure from the city's smoke, 
As wandering slowly up the river's bank, 
He meditates on Him whose ]jowers he marks 
In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough. 
And in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom 
Around the roots: and while he thus surveys 
With elevated joy each rural charm, 
He hopes (yet fears presumption in the hope). 
That heaven may be one Sabbath without end. 



Grahame. 



SCHOOL. 



See, toward yon dome where village science 

dwells. 
Where the church-clock its warning summons 

swells, 
What tiny feet the well-known path explore. 
And gaily gather from each rustic door. 
Light-hearted group ! — who carol wild and high. 
The daisy cull, or chase the butterfly. 
Or by some traveler's wheels aroused from play, 
The stiff salute, with deep demureness, pay, 
Bare the curled brow, and stretch the sunburnt 

hand, 
The home-taught homage of an artless land. 
The stranger marks, amid their joyous line. 
The little baskets, whence they hope to dine, 
And larger books, as if their dexterous art 
Dealt most nutrition to the noblest part ! — 
Long may it be, ere luxury teach the shame 
I'o starve the mind, and bloat the unwieldy frame. 

?.Irs. SisiOurnev. 



Oh ye ! who teach the ingenious youth of nations, 
Holland, France, England, Germany or Spain, 
I pray ye flog them upon all occasions. 
It mends their morals, never mind the pain. Byron. 
In a green lane that from the village street 
Diverges, stands the school-house ; long and low 
The frame, and blackened with the hues of time. 

Street. 

The room displays 
Long rows of desk and bench ; the former stained 
And streaked with blots and trickles of dried ink, 
Lumbered with maps and slates, and well-thumbed 

books, 
And carved with rude initials. Street. 

Yet is the school-house rude. 
As is the chrysalis to the butterfly — 
To the rich flower the seed. The dusky walls 
Hold the fair germ of knowledge, and the tree 
Glorious in beauty, golden with its fruits. 
To this low school-house traces back its life. Street. 



SELFISHNESS. 



That smooth-faced gentleman, trickling commo- 
dity — 
Commodity the bias of the world : 
The world, who of itself is poised well, 
Made to run even, upon even ground ; 
Till this advantage, this vile drawing bias, 
This sway of motion, this commodity, 
Makes it take heed from all indifferency. 
From all direction, purpose, course, intent. 

Sliakespeare. 

Whate'er the passion, knowledge, fame or pelf, 

No one will change his neighbor for himself; 

The learned is happy nature to explore. 

The fool is happy that he knows no more ; 

The rich is happy in the plenty given. 

The poor contents him with the care of heaven. 

See the blind beggar dance, the cripple sing ; 

The sot a hero, lunatic a king; 

The starving chemist, in his golden views 

Supremely blest, the poet in his muse. 

Pope. 



Ye may twine the living flowers 

Where the living fountains glide, 
And beneath the rosy bowers 

Let the selfish man abide ; 
And the birds upon the wing, 

And the barks upon the wave, 
Shall no sense of freedom bring — 

All is slavery to the slave : 
Mammon's close-linked chains have bound 
him, 

Self-imposed and seldom burst ; 
Thougli heaven's waters gush around him, 

He would pine with earth's poor thirst. 

Mrs. Hale. 

How cold he hearkens to some bankrujJt's woe. 
Nods his wise head, and cries, — " I told you so !" 

Sprague. 

And though all cry down self, none means 
His own self in a literal sense. 

Butler. 



CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 



535 



Self is the medium least refined of all, 
Through which opinion's searching beam can fall ; 
And passing there, the clearest, steadiest ray 
Will tinge its light and turn its line astray. 

Mooi-e. 



Self-love never yet could look on truth, 
But with bleared beams ; sleek flattery and she 
Are twin-born sisters, and so mix their eyes, 
As if you sever one, the other dies. 

Ben Jonson. 



SHIP. 



So turns the faithful needle to the pole, 
Though mountains rise between and oceans roll. 

Darwin. 

The obedient steel with living instinct moves, 
.\nd veers for ever to the pole it loves. 

Darwin. 

She comes majestic with her swelling sails, 
The gallant bark ; along her watery way 
Homeward she drives before the favoring gales ; 
Now flirting at their length the streamers play, 
And now they ripple with the ruffling breeze. 

Southey. 

On each gay deck they might behold 

Lances of steel and crests of gold. 

And hauberks with their burnished fold, 

That shimmered fair and free ; 
And each proud galley, as she passed, 
To the wild cadence of the blast 

Gave wilder minstrelsy. Scott. 



Upon the gale she stooped her side, 
And bounded o'er the swelling tide. 

As she were dancing home ; 
The merry seamen laughed to see 
Their gallant ship so lustily 

Furrow the green sea-foam. 



Scott. 



Merrily, merrily goes the bark. 

On a breeze from the northward free ; 

So shoots through the morning sky the lark, 
Or the swan through the summer sea. 

ScoU. 

How gloriously her gallant course she goes! 
Her white wings flying — never from her foes; 
She walks the waters like a thing of life. 
And seems to dare the elements to strife. 
Who would not brave the battle-fire — the wreck- 
To move the monarch of her peopled deck ? 

Byron. 



SILENCE. 



They never felt, 
Those summer flies that flit so gayly round thee, 
They never felt one moment what I feel, 
With such a silent tenderness, and keep 
So closely in my heart. Percival. 

The temple of our purest thoughts is — silence ! 

J/;-5. Hale. 



There is a silence where hath been no sound. 
There is a silence where no sound may be. 
In the cold grave, under the deep, deep sea. 

Or in wide desert where no life is found, 

SINCERITY. 



Which hath been mute, and still must sleep pro- 
found ; 

No voice is hushed — no life treads silently, 

But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free, 
That never spoke, over the idle ground ; 
But in green ruins, in the desolate walls 

Of antique palaces, where man hath been, 
Though the dun fox or wild hyena calls. 

And owls that flit continually between. 
Shriek to the echo, and the low wind moan. 
There the true silence is, self-conscious and alone. 

Hood. 



Men should be what they seem : 
Or, those that be not, would they might seem 
none. Shakespeare. 

His nature is too noble for the world : 

lie would not flatter Neptune for his trident, 

Or Jove for's power to thunder : his heart's his 

mouth : 
Wiiat his breast forges that his tongue must vent; 
And, being angry, does forget that ever 
He heard the name of death. Shakespeare. 



His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles: 
His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate; 
His tears pure messengers sent from his heart ; 
His heart as far from fraud as heaven from earth. 

Shakespeare. 

You have a natural wise sincerity, 

A simple truthfulness ; 
And, though yourself not unacquaint with care. 

Have in your heart wide room. 

Lowell. 



O many a shaft at random sent. 
Finds mark the archer never meant ; 
And many a word at random spoken. 
May soothe or wound the heart that's broken ! 

Scott. 



SLANDER. 

There is a lust in man no charm can tame. 
Of loudly publishing his neighbor's shame ; 
On eagle's wings immortal scandals fly ; 
While virtuous actions are but born and die. 

Ha} vey. 



536 



CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 



A whisper woke the air — 

A soft light tone and low, 

Yet barbed with shame and woe — 
Now might it only ptiish there ! 

Nor farther go. 
Ah me ! a quick and eager ear 

Caught up the little meaning sound ! 
Another voice hath breathed it clear, 

And so it wanders round 
From ear to lip — from lip to ear — 
Until it reached a gentle heart, 

And t^iaf — // droke. 

Mrs. Osgood. 

'Tis slander ; 
Whose edge is sharper than the sword ; whose 

tongue 
Outvenoms all tlie worms of Nile ; whose breath 
Rides on the posting winds, and doth belie 
All corners of the world : kings, queens, and 

states, 
Maids, matrons — nay, the secrets of the grave 
This viperous slander enters. Shakespeare. 



Society itself, which should create 
Kindness, destro\ s what little we had got : 
To feel for none is the true social art 
Of the world's stoics — men without a heart. 

Byron. 

How many pleasant faces shed their light on every 

side. 
How many angels unawares have crossed thy casual 

way ! 
How often, in thy journeyings, hast thou made 

thee instant friends. 
Found, to be loved a little while, and lost, to meet 

no more ; 
Friends of liappy reminiscences, although so tran- 
sient in their converse, 
Liberal, cheerful, and sincere, a crowd of kindly 

traits. 
I have sped by land and sea, and mingled with 

much people, 



What have I done, that thou dar'st wag thy tongue 
In noise so rude against me ? Shakespeare. 

Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou 
Shalt not escape calumny. Shakesi>eare. 

No might nor greatness in mortality 
Can censure 'scape ; back-wounding calumny 
The whitest virtue strikes : what king so strong. 
Can tie the gall up in the slanderous tongue ? 

Shakespeare. 

Nor do they trust their tongues alone. 

But speak a language of their own : 

Can read a nod, a shrug, a look, 

Far better than a printed book ; 

Convey a libel in a frown. 

And wink a reputation down ; 

Or, by the tossing of a fan. 

Describe the lady and the man. Snift. 

Slander meets no regard from noble minds ; 
Only the base believe, what the base only utter. 

Beller. 

SOCIETY. 

But never yet could find a spot unsunned by 

human kindness ; 
Some more, and some less — but, truly, all can 

claim a little : 
And a man may travel through the world, and sow 

it thick with friendships. 

Tapper. 
Society is now one polished horde. 
Formed of two mighty tribes, the //ores and bored. 

Bvroii. 



What bliss is born of sorrow ! 

'Tis never sent in vain — 
The heavenly Surgeon maims to save, 

He gives no useless pain. 

Watts. 

When the cold breath of sorrow is sweeping 

O'er the chords of the youthful heart, 
And the earnest eye, dimmed with strange weeping. 

Sees the visions of fancy depart ; 
When the bloom of young feeling is dying, 

.\nd the heart throbs with passion's fierce strife, 
When our sad days are wasted in sighing, 

Who then can find sweetness in life? 



Blessed we sometimes are ! and I am now 
Hapijy in quiet feelings ; for the tones 
Of a most pleasant company of friends 
Were in my ear but now, and gentle thoughts 
From spirits whose high character I know ; 
And I retain their influence, as the air 
Retains the softness of departed day. 

WiilU. 
SORROW. 

Sorrow treads heavily, and leaves behind 

A deep impression, e'en when she departs: 
While joy trips by with steps light as the wind. 

And scarcely leaves a trace upon our hearts 
Of her flint foot-falls: only this is sure, 
In this world nought, save misery, can endure. 

Mrs. Embury. 
Ye withered leaves ! Ye withered leaves ! 

To mark your premature decay. 
With sympathy my bosom heaves, 
For like its hopes, ye pass away ! 
Like you, they brightened in the gleam 

Of summer's sweetly genial ray. 
But brilliant, transient as a dream. 
The autumn found them in dera\'. 
Mrs. Embury. Mrs. Dennis. 



CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 



537 



SOUL. 



Inward turn 
Each thought and every sense, 
For sorrow lingers from without, 

Thou canst not charm it thence. 
But all attuned the soul may be 
Unto a deathless melody. 

Airs Oakes Smith. 

Our thoughts are boundless, though our frames are 
frail, 

Our souls immortal, though our limbs decay; 
Though darkened in this poor life by a veil 

Of suffering, dying matter, we shall play 

In truth's eternal sunbeims ; on the way 
To Heaven's high capitol our cars j^hall roll; 

The temple of the Power whom all obey. 
That is the mark we tend to, for the soul 
Can take no lower flight, and seek no meaner goal. 

Percival. 

What, my soul, was thy errand here? 

Was it mirth or ease. 
Or heaping up dust from year to year ? 

" Nay, none of these !" 



Speak, soul, aright in His holy sight. 

Whose eye looks still 
And steadily on thee through the night ; 

" To do His will !" 

Whit tier. 

Oh, laggard soul ! unclose thine eyes — 

No more in luxury soft 
Of joy ideal waste thyself: 

Awake, and soar aloft ! 
Unfurl this Jiour those falcon wings 

Which thou dost fold too long ; 
Raise to the skies thy lightning gaze. 

And sing thy loftiest song ! 

Mrs. Osgood. 

Oh soul ! I said, " thy boding murmurs cease; 
Though sorrow bind thee as a funeral pall. 
Thy Father's hand is guiding thee through all, 
His love will bring a true and perfect peace. 

Look upward once again ; though drear the 

night, 
Earth may be darkness, Heaven will give thee 
light ! " Mrs. Neat. 



STARS. 



Whom their great stars 
Throne and set high. Shakespeare. 

Here 
Will I set up my everlasting rest. 
And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars 
From this world-wearied flesh. Shakespeare. 

See, at the call of night, 
The star of evening sheds her silver light. 

Gay. 
There they stand. 
Shining in order like a living hymn 
Written in light. milis. 

They are all \x\) — the innumerable stars 

That hold their place in heaven. My eyes have been 

Searching the pearly depths through which they 

spring 
Like beautiful creations. Willis. 



Ye stars, that are the poetry of heaven. Byron. 

The sky 
Spreads like an ocean hung on high, 
Bespangled with those isles of light 
So wildly, spiritually bright. 
Who ever gazed upon them shining. 
And turned to earth without repining. 
Nor wished for wings to flee away. 
And mix with their eternal ray? Byron. 

But the stars, the soft stars! — when they glitter 
above us, 
I gaze on their beams with a feeling divine ; 
For, as true friends in sorrow more tenderly love us, 
The darker the heaven, the brighter thev shine. 

Mrs. iVelhy. 
And infant cherubs pierced the blue. 
Till rays of heaven came shining through 

Peabody. 



SUCCESS. 



'Tis not in mortals to command success; 
But we'll do more, Sempronius, we'll deserve it. 

Addison. 

Had I miscarried, I had been a villain ; 
For men judge actions always bv events : 
But when we manage by a just foresight, 
Success is prudence, and possession right. 

Higgitts. 
It is success that colors all in life : 
Success makes fools admired, makes villains honest, 
All the proud virtue of this vaunting world 
Fawns on success and power, howe'er acquirefl. 

Thomson. 



What though I am a villain, who so bold 
To tell me so ? let your poor petty traitors 
Feel the vindictive lash and scourge for wrong ; 
But who shall tax successful villany. 
Or call the rising traitor to account ? 

Havard. 

Applause 
Waits on success ; the fickle multitude, 
Like the light straw that floats along the stream. 
Glide with the current still, and follow fortune. 

Ben. Franklin. 



538 



CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 



What my tongue dares not, that my heart shall say. 

Shakespeare. 

Kindness by secret sympathy is tied, 
For noble souls in nature are allied. 

Diydeii. 
Love's soft sympathy imparts 
That tender transport of delight 
That beats in undivided hearts. 

Cartwright. 

A knight and a lady once met in a grove, 

While each was in quest of a fugitive love ; 

A river ran mournfully murmuring by, 

And they wept in its waters for sympathy. 

" Oh, never was knight such a sorrow that bore. 

Oh, never was maid so deserted before." 

" From life and its woes let us instantly fly, 

And jump in together for sympathy !" 

At length spoke the lass, 'twixt a smile and a tear: 

' ' The weather is cold for a watery bier, 

When the summer returns, we may easily die ; 

Till then let us sorrow in sympathy." 

Heber. 
It is not well. 
Here in this land of Christian liberty, 
That honest worth or hopeless want should dwell 
Unaided by our care and sympathy. 

Phoebe Cary. 

Oh, there is need that on men's hearts should fall 
A spirit that can sympathize with all ! 

Phcebe Caiy. 



SYMPATHY. 

Oh ! ask not, hope thou not too much 

Of sympathy below; 
Few are the hearts whence one same touch 

Bids the sweet fountain flow. 

Mrs. Hetnans. 



If there be one that o'er thy dead 

Hath in thy grief borne part, 
And watched through sickness by thy bed — 

Call this a kindred heart ! 

JMrs. Hemans. 

It is the secret sympathy, 

The silver link, the silken tie. 

Which heart to heart, and mind to mind. 

In body and in soul can bind. 

Scotl. 

Like warp and woof all destinies 

Are woven fast. 
Linked in sympathy like the keys 

Of an organ vast ; 
Pluck one thread, and the web ye mar; 

Break but one 
Of a thousand keys, and the paining jar 

Through all will run. 

Wliittier. 

In the same beaten channel still have run 
The blessed streams of human sympathy ; 

And though I know this ever hath been done, 
The why and wherefore I could never see ! 

Phxbe Cary. 



TALKING. 



Nor did we fail to see within ourselves 
What need there is to be reserved in speech, 
And temper all our thoughts with charity. 

Wordsworth. 

And we talked — oh, how we talked! her voice so 
cadenced in the talking, 
Made another singing — of the soul ! a music 
without bars — • 
While the leafy sounds of woodlands, humming 
round where we were walking. 
Brought interposition worthy — sweet, — as skies 
about the stars. 
And she spake such good thoughts natural, as if 
she always thought them. 

Mrs. Brotiming. 

Speak gently ! 'Tis a little thing 
Dropped in the heart's deep well ; 

The good, the joy which it may bring 
Eternity shall tell. 



Bates. 



It may be glorious to write 

Thoughts that shall glad the two or three 
High souls, like those far stars that come in sight 

Once in a century ; — ■ 
But better far it is to speak 

One simple word, which now and then 
Shall waken their free nature in the weak 

And friendless sons of men. Lowell. 

Thy talk is the sweet extract of all speech. 
And holds mine ear in blissful slavery. 

Bailey. 
She spake. 
And his love-wildered and idolatrous soul 
Clung to the airy music of her words. 
Like a bird on a bough, high swaying in the wind. 

Bailey. 
I cannot tell thee, hour by hour, 

That I adore thee dearly ; 
I cannot talk of passion's power — 
But oh ! I feel sincerely ! 

Mrs. Osgood. 



TEARS. 



The tear that is shed, though in secret it roll, 
Shall long keep his memory green in my soul. 

Moore. 



Thank God, bless God, all ye who suffer not 
More grief than ye can weep for. 

Mrs. Browning. 



CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 



539 



Hide thy tears — 
I do not bid thee not to shed them — 'twere 
Easier to stop Euphrates at its source 
Than one tear of a true and tender heart — 
But let me not behold them ; they unman me. 

Byron. 

Tears! what are tears? The babe weeps in his cot, 
The mother singing ; at her marriage bell, 
The bride weeps; and before the oracle 
Of high-famed hills, the ])oet hath forgot 
'I'he moisture on his cheeks. Mrs. Browning. 



Give our tears to the dead ! For humanity's claim 
From its silence and darkness is ever the same ; 
The hope of the world whose existence is bliss, 
May not stifle the tears of the mourners of this. 

Whittier. 

Yet thou, didst thou but know my fate, 
Wouldst melt, my tears to see ; 

And I, methinks, would weep the less, 
Wouldst thou but weep with me. 

Percival. 



TEMPERANCE. 



Temperate in every place — abroad, at home, 
Thence will applause, and hence will profit come; 
And health from either he in time prepares 
For sickness, age, and their attendant cares. Crabbe. 

Beware the bowl ! though rich and bright 

Its rubies flash upon the sight, 

An adder coils its depth beneath. 

Whose lure is woe, whose sting is death. Street. 



Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty, 
For in my youth I never did apply 
Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood ; 
Nor did I with unbashful forehead woo 
The means of weakness and debility ; 
Therefore my age is as a lusty winter, 
Frosty, but kindly. Shakespeare. 

Health in the shaded spring. Foster. 



VANITY. 



These our actors, 
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and 
Are melted into air, into thin air : 
And. like the baseless fabric of this vision. 
The cloud-clapped towers, the gorgeous palaces. 
The solemn temples, the great globe itself. 
Yea, all which it inherit shall dissolve ; 
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded. 
Leave not a rack behind : we are such stuff 



As dreams are made of, and our little life 

Is rounded with a sleep. Shakespeare. 

Thus felt Sir Owen, as a man whose cause 

Is very good — it has his own applause. Crabbe. 

And he, the light and vain one, for him there never 

wakes 
That love, for which a woman's heart will beat 

until it breaks. Miss London. 



VIRTUE. 



A virtuous deed should never be delayed, 

The impulse comes from heaven, and he who 

strives 
A moment to repress it, disobeys 
The god within his mind. Dowe. 

The only amaranthine flower on earth 
Is virtue; th' only lasting treasure, truth. 

Cowper. 

Virtue 
Stands like the sun. and all which rolls around 
Drinks life, and light, and glory from her aspect. 

Byron. 

How insecure, how baseless in itself 
Is that philosophy, whose sway is framed 
For mere material instruments ! How weak 
The arts and high inventions, if unpropped 
By \irtue ! Wordsworth. 



All true glory rests. 
All praise, all safety, and all happiness. 
Upon the moral law. 

Wordsworth. 

Think — if thou on beauty leanest. 
Think how pitiful that stay, 

Did not virtue give the meanest 
Charms superior to decay. 

Wordsworth. 

Keep thy spirit pure 
From worldly taint, by the repellant power 
of virtue. Bailey. 

Morality's the right rule for the world. 

Nor could society cohere without 

Virtue ; and there are those whose spirits walk 

Abreast of angels and the future here. 

Bailey. 



540 



CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 



WATER. 



Water, water, every where, 

And all the boards did shrink ; 

Water, water, every where, 

Nor any drop to drink ! Coleridge. 

For the cool water we have quaffed, 
Source of all good, we owe thee much ; 

Our lips have touched no burning draught 
This day — nor shall they ever touch. 

Pierpont. 

Pour the bright lymph that Heaven itself let fall — 
In one fair bumper let us toast them all ! 

Holmes. 



Let light on water shine — 

The light of love and truth 
Then shall that drink divine 

Be quaffed by age and youth. 

Pierpont. 

Joy smiles in the fountain, health flows in the rills, 
And the ribands of silver unwind from the hills; 
They breathe not the mist of the bacchanal's 

dreams, 
But the lilies of innocence float on their streams. 



Holmes. 



WEEPING. 



Oh, weep not for the dead ! 
Rather, oh, rather give the tear 
To those who darkly linger here, 

When all besides are fled : 
Weep for the spirit withering 
In its cold, cheerless sorrowing ; 
Weep for the young and lovely one 
That ruin darkly revels on ; 

But never be a tear-drop shed 

For them, the pure enfranchised dead. 
Miuy E. Brooks. 

Do not weep so, dear-heart-warm ! 

It was best as it befell ! 
If I say he did me harm, 

I S])eak wild — I am not well. 
All his words were kind and good — 
He esteemed me ! Only blood 
Runs so faint in womanhood. 

Mrs. Browning. 

On that grave drop not a tear ! 

Else, though fathom deep the place. 
Through the woollen siiroud I wear 

I shall feel it on my fiice. 
Rather smile there, blessed one. 
Thinking of me in the sun — 
Or forget me — smiling on ! 

Mrs. Browning. 

In silence weep, 
And thy convulsive sorrows inward keep. 

Prior. 



I so lively acted with my tears, 
That my poor mistress, moved therewithal, 
Wept bitterly. 

Shakespeare^ 

Larded all with sweet flowers, 
Which bewept to the grave did go. 
With true love showers. 

Shakespeare. 

This heart shall break into a thousand flaws 
Or ere I weep. 

Shakespeare. 

Old fond eyes, 
Beweep this cause again, I'll pluck you out, 
And cast yoii with the waters that you lose, 
To temper clay. 

Shakespeare^ 

I weep, but not rebellious tears ; 

I mourn, but not in hopeless woe ; 
I droop, but not with doubtful fears ; 

For whom I've trusted. Him I know. 
Lord, I believe ; assuage my grief, 
And help, oh ! help my unbelief. 

My days of youth and health are o'er; 

My early friends are dead and gone ; 
And there are times it tries me sore 

To think I'm left on earth alone. 
But yet Faith whispers, " 'Tis not so : 
He will not leave, nor let thee go." 

Caroline A. Soiiihcv. 



WIFE. 



The sum of all that makes a just man happy 

Consists in the well choosing of his wife; 

And there, well to discharge it, does require 

Equality of years; of birth, of fortune ; 

For beauty being poor, and not cried up 

By birth or wealth, can truly mix with neither. 

And wealth, when there's such difference in 

years 
And fair descent, must make the yoke uneasy. 

Massinger. 



Give me, next good, an understanding wife. 
By nature wise, not learned by much art; 
Some knowledge on her side will all my life 
More scops of conversation then impart : 
Besides her inborn virtue fortify ; 
They are most good who best know why. 

Qverhury. 

Sole partner and sole part, of all these joys, 
Dearer thyself than all. 

Milton. 



CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 



641 



Men dying make their wills, 
But wives escape a task so sad : 

Why should they make what all their lives 
The gentle dames have had ? 

I want (who does not want?) a wife 

Affectionate and fair, 
To solace all the woes of life. 

And all its joys to share ; 
Of temper sweet, of yielding will. 

Of firm yet placid mind, 
With all my faults to love me still 
With sentiment refined. 

J. Q. Adams. 
She is mine own ; 
And I as rich in having such a jewel. 
As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl, 
The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold. 

Shakespeare. 

Should all despair. 
That have revolted wives, the tenth of mankind 
Would hang themselves. Shakespeare. 

What thou did'st 
Unargued I obey ; so God ordains ; 
God is thy law ! thou mine ; to knovv no more 
Is woman's happiest knowledge, and her praise. 

Milton. 
Thy likeness, thy fit help, thy other self, 
Thy wish exactly to thy heart's desire. 

Milton. 

For nothing lovelier can be found 
In woman, than to study household good, 
And good works in her husband to promote. 

Milton. 

Of earthly good, the best is a good wife, 
A bad — the bitterest curse of human life. 

My bride. 
My wife, my life. O we will walk this world, 
Yoked in all exercise of noble aim, 
And so through those dark gates across the wild 
That no man knows. Tennyson. 



Look through mine eyes with thine, true wife, 
Round my true heart thine arms entwine ; 

My other, dearer life in life, 

Look through my very soul with thine ! 

Tennyson. 

What bliss for her who lives her little day, 
In blest obedience, like to those divine, 
Who to her loved, her earthly lord can ?a\-, 
"God is thy law, most just, and thou art mine." 

Mrs. Brooks. 
Thou wast my nurse in sickness, and my comforter 

in health ; 
So gentle and so constant, when our love was all 

our wealth : 
Thy voice of music soothed me, love, in each des- 
ponding hour. 
As heaven's honey-dew consoles the bruised and 
broken flower. Pike. 

Why tarries he so long, while she — that one, 

So fond and true, so beautiful and bright — 
Now sits in cheerless watchfulness alone, 

Waiting his coming through the tedious night ? 
And as the chimes upon the distant bell 

Mark mournfully and sad his lingering stay, 
Each echoing peal seems but the gloomy knell 

Of joys departed, pleasures passed away. 

Patterson. 
The world well tried— the sweetest thing in life 
Is the unclouded welcome of a wife. Willis. 

All day, like some sweet bird, content to sing 
In its small cage, she moveth to and fro — 
And ever and anon will upward spring 
To her sweet lips, fresh from the fount below, 
The murmured melody of pleasant thought, 
Light household duties, evermore inwrought 
With pleasant fancies of one trusting heart, 
That lives but in her smile, and ever turns 
To be refreshed where one pure altar burns; 
Shut out from hence the mockery of life, 
Thus liveth she content, the meek, fond, trusting 
wife. Mrs. Oakes Smith. 



WISDOM. 



O wisdom ! if thy soft control 
Can soothe the sickness of the soul, 
Can bid the warring passions cease, 
.'\nd breathe the calm of tender peace ; 
Wisdom ! I bless thy gentle sway. 
And ever, ever will obey. 

Mrs. Barhauld. 

.'VU human wisdom to divine is folly ; 

This truth, the wisest man made melancliolv. 

Denhain. 

Wisdom sits alone, 
Topmost in heaven — she is its light — its God 
And in the heart of man she sits as high — 
Though grovelling minds forget her oftentimes. 
Seeing but this world's idols. The pure mind 



Sees her forever : and in youth we come 
Filled with her sainted ravishment, and kneel. 
Worshipping God through her sweet altar fires, 
And then is knowledge "good!" Willis. 

The bearing and the training of a child 
Is woman's wisdom. 

Tennyson. 

The wise do always govern their own fates. 
And fortune with officious zeal attends 
To crown their enterprises with success. 

Walk 
Boldly and wisely in that light thou hast; 
There is a hand above will help thee on. 

Bailey. 



542 



CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTANIONS. 



WOMAN. 



A perfect woman, nobly planned, 
To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
And yet a spirit still, and bright, 
With something of an angel light. 

Wordswortli. 

Women act their parts 
When they do make their ordered houses know 
them. Knowles. 

Happy — happier far than thou, 
With the laurel on thy brow ; 
She that makes the humblest hearth 
Lovely but to one on earth. 

Mrs. Hemans, 

Fairest and loveliest of created things, 
By our great Author in the Image formed 
Of His celestial glory, and designed 
To be man's solace. Herbert. 

Man is but half without woman ; and 
As do idolaters their heavenly gods, 
We deify the things that we adore. 

Bailey. 
And I marvel, sir. 
At those who do not feel the majesty, 
By heaven ! I'd almost said the holiness, — 
That circles round the fair and virtuous woman ! 

Frances Butler. 

Charming woman can true converts make. 
We love the precepts for the teacher's sake ; 
Virtue in her appears so bright and gay. 
We hear with pleasure, and with pride obey. 

Ben Franklin. 

Earlier than I know 
Immersed in rich foreshadowings of the vv'orld, 
I loved the woman : he that doth not, lives 
A drowning life, besotted in sweet self. 
Or pines in sad experience, worse than death, 
Or keeps his winged affections dipt with crime. 

Tennyson. 

Woman ! blest partner of our joys and woes ! 

Even in the darkest hour of earthly ill. 
Untarnished yet thy fond affection glows. 

Throbs with each pulse, and beats with every 
thrill ! 

Bright o'er the wasted scene thou hoverest still. 
Angel of comfort to the failing soul ; 

Undaunted by the tempest, wild and chill, 
That pours its restless and disastrous roll 
O'er all that blooms below, with sad and hollow 
howl. Sand. 

Through suffering and sorrow thou hast passed, 
Fo show us what a woman true may be. 

Lozuell. 
Maiden, when such a soul as thine is born, 
The morning-stars their ancient music make. 

Lowell. 



A health to sweet woman ! the days are no more, 
When she watched for her lord when the revel 

was o'er, 
And soothed the white pillow, and blushed when 

he came. 
As she pressed her cold lips on his forehead of 

flame. 
Alas, for the loved one ! too spotless and fair. 
The joys of his banquet to chasten and share ! 
Her eye lost its light, that its goblet might shine. 
And the rose on her cheek was dissolved in his 

wine. Holmes. 

She had a mind, 
Deep and immortal, and it would not feed 
On pageantry. She thirsted for a spring 
Of a serener element, and drank 
Philosophy, and for a little while 
She was allayed, till presently it turned 
Bitter within her, and her spirit grew 
Faint for undying waters. Then she came 
To the pure fount of God — and is athirst 
No more — save, when the " fever of the world" 
Falleth upon her, she will go and breathe 
A holy aspiration after heaven. Willis. 

In that stillness 
AVhich most becomes a woman — calm and holy — 
Thou sittest by the fireside of the heart. 
Feeding its flame. Longfellow. 

Ah ! woman — in this world of ours, 
What gift can be compared to thee ? 

How slow would drag life's weary hours. 

Though man's proud brow were bound with flowers. 
And his the wealth of land and sea. 

If destined to exist alone. 

And ne'er call woman's heart his own. Morris. 

Yes, woman's love is free from guile. 
And pure as bright Aurora's ray ; 
The heart will melt before its smile. 

And earthly objects fade away. 
Were I the monarch of the earth. 
And master of the swelling sea, 
I would not estimate their worth. 
Dear woman, half the price of tliee. 

Morris. 

And well the poet, at her shrine. 

May bend and worship while he woos ; 
To him she is a thing divine, 
The inspiration of his line. 

His loved one, and his muse. 
If to his song the echo rings 

Of fame — 'tis woman's voice he hears; 
If ever from his lyre's proud strings 
Flow sounds, like rush of angel wings — 
'Tis that she listens while he sings. 

With blended smiles and tears. Llalleck. 



CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 



543 



WORDS. 



A word is ringing tlirough my brain, 
It was not meant to give me pain ; 

It was whan Jir St the sound I heard 
A lightly uttered, careless word. 

Mrs Norton. 

Oh ! ye who, meeting, sigh to part. 
Whose words are treasures to some heart, 
Deal gently, ere the dark days come. 
When earth hath but for one a home ; 
Lest musing o'er the past, like me, 
They feel their hearts wrung bitterly, 
And, heeding not what else is heard, 
Dwell weeping on a careless word. 

Mrs. Norton. 

Words are the motes of thought, and nothing more. 
Words are like sea-shells on the shore; they show- 
Where the mind ends, and not how far it has been. 

Bailey. 

Cold words that hide the envious thought ! 

Win is. 



On my ear her language fell 

As if each word dissolved a spell. 

Willis. 
A mist of words. 
Like haloes round the moon, though they enlarge 
The seeming size of thoughts, make the light less 
Doubly. It is the thought writ down we want. 
Not its effect — not likenesses of likenesses. 
And such descriptions are not, more than gloves 
Instead of hands to shake, enough for us. 

Bailey. 

Words lead to things; a scale is more preci.se, — 
Coarse speech, bad grammar, swearing, drinking, 
vice. Holmes. 

One vague inflection spoils the whole with doubt. 

One trivial letter ruins all left out; 

A knot can choke a felon into clay ; 

A " not " will save him, spelt without the "k;" 

The smallest word has some unguarded spot. 

And danger lurks in " i" without a dot. 

Holmes. 



YOUTH. 



Of gentle blood, his parents' only treasure. 

Their lasting sorrow, and their vanished pleasure. 

Adorned with features, virtues, wit, and grace, 

A large provision for so short a race : 

More moderate gifts might have prolonged his date, 

Too early fitted for a better state : 

But, knowing heaven his home, to shun delay. 

He leaped o'er age, and took the shortest way. 

Dry Jen. 

Something of )outh, I in old age approve; 
But more the marks of age in youth I love. 
Who this observes, may in his body find 
Decrepit age, but never in his mind. 

Denhatn. 

Intemperate youth, by sad experience found. 
Ends in an age imperfect and unsound. 

Denhain. 

The love of higher things and better da)s ; 
The unbounded hope, and heavenly ignorance 
Of what is called the world, and the world's ways, 
The moments when we gather from a glance 
More joy than from all future pride or praise. 
Which kindle manhood, but can ne'er entrance 
The heart in an existence of its own, 
Of which another's bosom is the zone. 

Byron. 

In earlier days, and calmer hours, 
When heart with heart delights to blend, 
Where bloom my native valley's bowers, 
I had — ah ! have I now ? — a friend ! 

Byron's Giaour. 



Here — while I roved, a heedless boy, 

Here, while through paths of peace I ran, 

My feet were vexed with puny snares, 

My bosom stung with insect-cares : 

But ah ! what light and little things 

Are childhood's woes ! — they break no rest. 

Like dew-drops on the skylark's wings. 

While slumbering in his grassy nest, 

Gone in a moment, when he springs 

To meet the morn with open breast, 

As o'er the eastern hills her banners glow, 

And veiled in mist the valley sleeps below. 

Montgomery. 

Let them exult ! their laugh and song 
Are rarely known to last too long ; 
Why should we strive, with cynic frown, 
To knock their fairy castles down ? 

Eliza Cook. 



Youth might be wise. 
Than pleasures. 



We suffer less from pains 
Bailey. 



Youth hath a strong and strange desire to try 
All feelings on the heart : it is very wrong. 
And dangerous, and deadly : strive against it ! 

Bailey. 

The rainbow's lovely on the eastern cloud. 
The rose is beauteous on the bended thorn, 

Sweet is the evening ray from purple shroud. 
And sweet the orient blushes of the morn ; 

Sweeter than all the beauties which adorn 

The female form in youth and maiden bloom. 

Hogg- 



544 



CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 



Promise of )outh ! fair as the form 
Of heaven's benign and golden bow, 

Thy smiling arch begirds the storm, 
And sheds a light on every woe. 

Brooks. 

I feel the rush of waves that round me rise — 
The tossing of my boat upon the sea ; 

Ytw sunbeams linger in the stormy skies, 

And youth's bright shore is lessening on the lee! 

Bayard Taylor. 

In the passion hour of youth. 

The lip may speak its holiest vow. 

Yet shadows dim the spirit's truth 

And pride and coldness change the brow. 

Bayard Taylor. 

Light to thy path, bright creature ! I would 

charm 
Thy being, if I coulJ, that it should be 
Ever as now thou dreamest, and flow on, 
Thus innocent and beautiful, to heaven. 

Willis. 
But can there grow cowslips and lilies. 
Like those that I gathered in )outh? 
With my heart in the depths of their blossoms. 
All steeped in the dew-drops of truth ? 

Miss Jewsbury. 

Youth has spent his wealth and bought 

The knowledge he would fain 
Change for tbrgetfulness, and live 

His dreaming life again. 

Miss Landon. 

Youth, that pursuest, with such eager pace, 

Thy even way. 
Thou pan test on to win a mournful race: 

Then stay ! oh stay ! Milnes. 



Alas ! that youth's fond hopes should fade, 

And love be but a name. 
While its rainbows, followed e'er so fast, 

Are distant still the same. Dawes. 

The restless spirit charmed thy sweet existence. 

Making all beauteous in youth's pleasant maze, 
While gladsome hope illumed the onward dis- 
tance, 
And lit with sunbeams thy expectant days. 

Clark. 

The youth whose bark is guided o'er 
A summer stream by zephyr's breath, 

With idle gaze delights to pore 

On imaged skies that glow beneath. 

Le^f^gett. 

How beautiful wlio scatters, wide and free, 

The gold — bright seeds of loved and loving 
truth ! 
By whose perpetual hand each day supplied — 
Leaps to new life the empire's heart of youth. 

Mathews. 

How shall I ever go through this rough world ! 
How find me older every setting sun ! 
How merge my boyish heart in manliness ! 

Coxe. 

Remember not the follies of my youth. 
But in thy mercy think upon me. Lord ! 

Coxe. 

I go from strength to strength, from Joy to jov ; 
From being unto being. I will snatch 
This germ of comfort from departing youth. 
And when the pictured primer's thrown aside, 
I'll hoard its early lessons in my heart. 

Coxe. 



ZEAL. 



Spread out earth's holiest records here, 
Of days and deeds to reverence dear ; 
A zeal like this what pious legends tell? 

Spragiie. 

His zeal 
None seconded, as out of season judged, 
Or singular and rash. Milton. 

Press bravely onward ! — not in vain 
Your generous trust in human kind; 

The good which bloodshe ! could not gain 
Your pe.nceful zeal shall find. Whittier. 



2,^2\ and duty are not slow; 
But on occasion's forelock watchful wait. 

Milton. 
How beautiful it is for man to die 
Upon the walls of Zion ! to be called 
Like a watch-worn and weary sentinel, 
To put his armor off, and rest — in heaven ! 
His heart was with Jerusalem ; and strong 
As was a mother's love, and the sweet ties 
Religion makes so beautiful at home. 
He flung them from him in his eager race. 
And sought the broken people of his God, 
To preach to them of Jesus ! Willis. 



VOCAL AND INSTRUMENTAL MUSIC 



COMPRISING 



MASTERPIECES FROM THE MOST CELEBRATED COMPOSERS. 



The man that hath no music in himself, 

Nor is not mov'd with concord of sweet sounds, 

Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils ; 

The motions of his spirit are dull as night, 

And his affections dark as Erebus : 

Let no such man be trusted. 

Shakespeare. 

For mine is the lay that lightly floats. 

And mine are the murmuring dying notes, 

That fall as soft as snow on the sea. 

And melt in the heart as instantly ! 

And the passionate strain that, deeply going, 

Refines the bosom it trembles through, 
As the musk-wind, over the water blowing, 

Ruffles the wave, but sweetens it, too ! 

Moore. 

And the night shall be filled with music, 

And the cares that infest the day 
Shall fold their tints like the Arabs, 

And as silently steal away. 

Lo7igfellow. 

Of all the liberal arts, music has the greatest influence over the passions, and is that to which 
the legislator ought to give the greatest encouragement. A well-composed song strikes and softens 
the mind, and produces a greater effect than a moral work, which convinces our reason, but does 
not warm our feelings, nor effect the slightest alteration in our habits. 

Napoleon. 
35 645 




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blow, 
wake. 




There are days and homes of gladness, There are nights of want and 
There are lips for song and laughter, There are hearts toweepand 



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FORVOUANDME. 



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woe; There are winds to whisper gent - 1\% There are storms 

break; There are stars to Hght the darkness, There are suns 



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dolce assai. 



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'sm 



sea 
blue 



' > Andthere's love for you and me, love, There's love for you and 



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ro« grazia. 



a piaeere. ^ 




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gmgerfj (!5reeting. 



For One or Two Voices, AD LIB. 



FEANS ABT. 



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1. See now, see now, stars the dark gloom pierc - ing. 



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O'er thee shetl their sil - v'ry light, 



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their sil - v'ry light; 



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sostenuto. 



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Tho' the bound - less e - the - real spare di - vide thee, 




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550 



ANGEL'S GREETING. 




Thty will guide thee all through the drear - y night, 



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guide thee all through the drear -y night. 






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See now, see now, how yon s'r^v is twinkling, 
On its beams so soft and clear, so soft and clear! 

Guardian angels send thee holy greetings, 

Thy sad heart and thy trembling soul to cheer. 



See now, see now, how the stars are flashing ! 

Angels beckon thee away, far, far awa^- ; 
And their beacons bright they'll still keep burnings 

Till o'er thee breaketh the long'd-for dawn of Day. 



§rai Ijlatirc *]iomc. 



WILLIAM BALL. 




Andantino. 

X V 



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—I ^-^i«-r-J ^^L^-JS J_J_.'^ _l ,1=^ — 1^ ^ 



1. Far o'er the wave, 

2. Vain - ly for me 

3. Cease, ye who sing 



I r I i > I U 



as morn's soft beam re - turn - iiii;-, Slow - ly un - viiled the 

Love's sig-nal radiance lirightn'ning, Flamed from his al - tars 

the waud'rer's heartless pleas- are. Leave, leave my path! no 

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well- re- raember'd shore. How swell'd my heart, with ea - ger fan - cies burn - ing, 
o'er my tru - ant way, Ab - sent from thee, the summer's beauteous light'uing, 
more, no more I roam: Here lives a charm, worth all un - counted treas - ure, 



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Dreams of past joys, and hopes of price - less store ! 
All harm -less, played not round the fad - ing day. 
Here breathes the sigh of Welcome, welcome home ! 



Sweet homo, receive me ! 
Sweet home, receive me ! 
Sweet home, receive me ! 



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Faith -ful I come, Nev - er, oh ! nev-er to leave thee. Dear na- five home, Sweet home, re- 






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ceive me! Faith-ful I come, Nev 



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er, oh! never to leave thee, Dear na-tivehome 

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HENEY E'JSSELL. 



GEOECrE P. MOEEIS. 




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1. This hook 

2. Ah! well 

3. jNIy fa - 

4. Thou tru - 



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is all that's left me now! Tears will iiii - bid - deu start; 

do I re - mem - her those Whose names the reo - ords bear; 

ther read this ho - ly book To broth - ers, sis - ters dear ; 

est friend man ev - er knew, Thy cou - stan - cy I've tried; 

-jfr_l^_ ^ -^- - ■^■ 



Willi 

Vi'lu) 

How 

Where 



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1^ 1^ -•- • 

fait - 'ring lip and throbbing brow, 

round the hearth-stone used to close 

calm was my poor moth - er's look, 

all were false, I found thee true. 






I press it to 

Af - ter the ev' - 
Who leaned God's word 
My coun - sel - lor 



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my heart, 
ning prayer. 

to hear, 
and guide. 






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For 
And 
Her 
The 




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ma - 
speak 
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iiy gen - er - a - 
of what these pa 
gel face — I see 
of earth no treas 






tions past. Here is our fam - 'ly tree; 

ges said, In tones my heart would thrill ! 
it yet! What throng -ing mem- 'ries come! 
• ure give That could this vol - ume buy ; 



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ble clasped; 

lent dead, 
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It taught 



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the 
me 



n'live 
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how 



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it 

ing 
of 
to 



me. 

still. 

home. 

die. 



:;t=- 



©li^ i^lmt Jouial guntfjutnt. 



Music by JOHN FARMER. 



Moderato. 




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1. It's of three 

2. They hunt-ed, 

3. They hunt-ed, 

4. They hunt-ed. 



jo - vial huntsmen, an' a 

an' they liol - lo'd. an' the 

an' they ho] - lo'd, an' the 

an' they hoi -lo'd. an' tlie 



hunt - ing they 
next thing they 
next thins! 
next tliins 



did go ; 
did find 



they did 
they did 



tind 
find 



An' they 
Was a 
Was a 
Was a 



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hunted, an' they holio'd, an' they blew their horns also. Look ye there! Look ye 

tatter'd boggart in a field, an' that they left be- hind. Look ye there! Look ye 

gruntin', grindin' grindlestone, an' that they left be - hind. Look ye there ! Look ye 

bull-calf in a pin-fold, an' that, too, they left be - hind. Look ye there! Look ye 




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there! An' one said"Mindyo'r e'tn, an' keep yo'r no - ses reel 

there! One said it was a bog - gart, an' "an - otli - er he 

there! One s:iid it was a grin - "die -stone, an - oth - er he 

there! One said it was a bull-calf, an' an- oth- er he 



i'th' 
said 
said 
said 









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^ 



THE THREE JOVIAL HUNTSMEN, 



^ 



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wind, An' then, by scent or seet, we'll leet o' sum - mat to our 

"Nay, 'Its just a ge' - men far- tner that has gone an' lost his 

"Nay, 'Its nought but an owd fos - sil cheese that somebody's roU't a 

"Nay, 'Its just a paint -ed jack - ass, that has uev - er larnt to 




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mind.' 
way.' 
way. ' 
bray. ' 



Look ye there! 

Look ye there! 

Look ye there! 

Look ye there! 



Look ye 
Look ye 
Look }-e 
Look ye 



there ! 
there ! 
there ! 
there ! 



Look ye there! 

Look ye there ! 

Look ye there! 

Look ye there! 



Echo. 



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5. They huntecl, an' they liollo'd, an' the next thing they did find 
Was a two-three children leaving school, an' these they left behind. 

Look ye there ! Look ye there ! 
One said that they were children, but another he said "Nay, 
They're no' but little angels, so we'll leave em' to their play." 

Look ye there ! Look ye there ! Look ye there ! 

6. They hunted, an' they hollo'd, an' the next thing they did find, 
Was a fat pig smiling in a ditch, an' that, too, they left behind. 

Look ye there ! Look ye there ! 
One said it was a fat pig, the other he said "Nay, 
It's just a Lunnan Alderman whose clothes are stole away." 

Look ye there! Look ye there I Look ye there 1 

7. They hunted, an' they hollo'd, an' the next tiling they did find 
Was two young lovers in the lane, an' these they left behind 

Look ye there! Look ye there ! 
One said that they where lovers, but another he said "Nay, 
They're two poor wandring lunatics, come, let us go away." 

Look ye there ! Look ye there ! Look ye there I 

fe. So they hunted, and they hollo'd, till the settin of the sun; 

And they'd nought to bring away at last, when th' huntin' day was done. 

Look ye there ! Look ye there ! 
Tlien one unto the other said, "This huntin' doesn't pay; 
But we'n powlert up an' down a bit, an' had a rattlin' day." 

Look ye there ! Look ye there ! Look ye ihere ! 



§lic Jmi Irttrr. 



Words by F. E. WEATHERLY. 

A/legro Moderato, 



Music by J. L. MOLLOY. 



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1. A let-ter I've liatl from my 

L'. "lis the firstthat I've had Irommy 



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own true lad; He's a- way on the frozen Arctic o 
sail- or lad; There are no tine words of tender pas 



cean, And it must be the cold that has 
sion, But it's all just expressed as I 




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^m^^^^^^^^^m^ 



made hira bold To write tome all his heart's de - vo - tiou; He talk'd ofhisj^hipwhenhe 
like it best, In bis own simple hon-est lov - ing fash - ion: My dear lit-tle girl, I'm so 



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last was onshore. Of the cap-tian and crew, of the weather and war. Then said hemust go, and 
hard and so rough, And you're sweet and good, and I'm not good enough. But my heart it ir; true, and wiy 



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THE FIKST LETTER. 



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nothiiif^, notliinsmort'.Tho' Iknewthathc loved me.Oso dear - ly'And I knew that my lad was so 
love it is tougli, Aud I love you for uv - er and for ev - er"lmay 






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sad, so sad, As the ship sailed away so gay and cheer - ly. 



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have man-y let - ters in days to come, But there's one that will he for-goMcn nev - er, It's the 



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/ore lentando. rail, ad lib. 



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first that I've had from my own true lad, And 'tis writ in my loving heart for ev - er. 

J 1 1 '• r^ . ■ , , I j 



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1221 



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"Z7' 



^ Pothfi'';; ^ong. 



Woriis "by Dr. BLATHERWICK. 

AToderato. 



Music by VIRGINIA GABRIEL. 



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1. Sleep, ba- by, sleep, your father's a-way. Sleep, ba- by, sleep, and moth-er will pray, 

2. .Sleep, ba - by, sleep, your father's a -way, .Sleep, lia - by, sleep, and moth-er will pray. 



t; --^- -^ -^- -^ -~j- -»- -»- -»- -^. 



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Pray for poor fa - ther who sails on the sea, 
Pray all the niijht thro' the sea's sul-lenroar. 



Pray while I'm rock-ing his 
Pray while I'm watching and 



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babe on my knee; May breez-es blow gent- ly wher-e'er he may be. And 

weep - ing so sore ; But there's fa - ther's voice com-ing up from the shore, And 




558 



A MOTHER'S SOKG. 



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blow him home safe- ly to ba - by and me; 
ba - by and moth-er are weep - ing no more ; 



J!m. 



Safe - ly, safe ly, to 

Ba - by and mother are 



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ba -by and me,., 
weep-ing no more,. 



to ba-by and me. 
are 




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weep-ing no 



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659 



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Slhc ^naiu=t3lliite lofjc. 



Piano. 



Words and Music by ALICE HAWTHORN. 




^El 



gig^^ g^^gg^E-^fSg ^^g 




1. If in this world 

2. And now when spring 

3. What -e'er my heart 



there is a 

is on her 
may learn to 



flovv'r To 

way, When 

prize 'Till 




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It 



irtzziiz 



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me more love - ly than the rest, It is the rose, the pale white rose, The 
flow'rs with their per - fume a - bound, I seek the grove and love to dwell Where- 
life shall meet its cer - tain close; I know I ne'er shall cease to love The 




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snow-white rose I love the best. But why this flovv'r 

e'er the snow-white rose is found. But why this flow'r 

beau - ty of the snow-white rose. For oh, this flow'r 



so dear to me? Why 
so dear to me? Why 
so dear to me. So 




■***•**— •'•^^i 






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660 



THE SNOW-WHITE ROSE. 



^ ^ te77tpo. 






my heart such pleasures semi ? k. m,,.:. 

my heart such pleasures send? Be - cause 

so beau . ti - ful to view, T We 



It was the 

It was the 

be - cause jt 



tempo. ^"""""'^ 




---=^=^^- 



Of one who ev - er 
Of one who ev - er 
Of one whose heart is 



lil_^^i^ 



is 
is 
ev 



my friend. Be - 

my friend, Be - 

true, I 









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36— GG 



mt Mh ^iiikr lorn 



Eallad by GEO. A. CEAGG. 



Voice. I 



Guitar. 



Arranged for the Guitar by SEP. WINNEE. 



geE^=P 



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I. He said good-by a year a - go, And sail'd a- cross the 
2.'Twas but a dream, the cru ■ el sea My love had not brought 




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sea; He said, 

back, And gold 

I 



my love. I 
en years had 



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will return A- gain sweet -heart to 
fled apace, Since I had seen my 




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thee. One night I iiaci the sweet - est dream, A vis- ion wond'rous clear- 
Jack. But then theic Ciii.L an - oth - er dream. His form my vis -ion drew 

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his ship at an - chor ride, My love stood smil-ing near, 
a - woke, oh joy, oh bliss, My dream, my dream was true, 



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his ship at an - chor ride. My love stood smil - ing near, 

a -woke, oh joy, oh bhss. My dream, my dream was true. 



I LOVE MY SAILOR BOY. 



Tempo di I'a/se. 



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Jack stood be - side me, laughing and teas - ing, Shout ■ ing his lus - ty a - 






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Ah, hap - py meet - ing, What joy - ous greet - ing, 

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Gave I my brave sail - or boy. 

II J J II 



You have my heart, love, 

J J II II 



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We'll nev-er part, love. Ah, how his words gave me joy 

II II II II II 



Here m our 



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cot, love, I'll cast my lot, love, I love my brave sail - or boy 




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Words and Music by ALICE HAWTHOENE. 



Voice. 



Piano. 



JModerato. 



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1. In a gnrttenof ro-ses I met her, On a beautiful bright after-noon, And the 

2. In a garden of ro-ses we laid her, (_)n a sorrowful morning in Spring, But the 



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mild, balmy breezes of Summer were sweet From the meadows and flowers of June. We 
bright sunny fields, nor the meadows again A comfort ■ ing so-lace could bring. We were 



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wandered a - round as the sun-set Broughtthegloomof the twilight a - bout, liut^e 

part-ed at last and for- ev-er, And the sweetest com-pan-ion was lo»i ; Ah,ii.e 






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part-ed at last when the shadowsof night Had the i>eautiesof day blotted out Oh. that 

world seemed a deso - late region of gloom When we buiied the one we loved most A - 



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A GARDEN OF ROSES. 



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beau-ti - ful gar -den of roses (.In my mind hath its sweet pic-ture set; And the 

las! for the hearts that are broken When near ones and dear ones are gone; A - 






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moments, sweet moments of pleasure enjoyed In its beauties I nev-er for-get. I 

las! for all sigh -ing and weeping is vain When we find we are left all a ■ lone. In a 



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nev-er for -get for a moment Those eyes that en-chant-ed me there, Northe 
gar-den of ro - ses I'm sigh-ing, Nor peace for the fu-ture I see. Yet I 



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charm of that voice, so per -sua- sive to joy, In that gar-den of ro-ses so fair, 
ratherwouldgrieveformy dar-ling so dear Than that she should be weeping for me. 



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565 



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Words by F- E. WEATHEELY. 

Allegretto. J J I J i j 



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Music by A. H. BEHREND. 



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Tell me a sto - ry, just one.moth-er dear. Can - dies are com - ing, 

Ah ! there is Ma - ry just come with a light, Now there's no time for a 



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bed-time is near, 
sto - ry to - night. 



There is my hand to hold, Bend down your head, 
Please make the boys, mother, Mind how they tread, 



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Don't 
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speak too loud, mother, Dol-ly's in bed. 
are so heav-y, and Dol-ly's in bed. 



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Good-night, dear 



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moth-er! 



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TELL JIE A STORY. 



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old Jack and Jill, They were so s;ii ■ ])id to turn- ble down hill. 

Ask pa - pa, please, ^Vhe^ he comes iionie, not to cough or to sneeze. 



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tir'd of Jack Horn ■ er and 

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Lit - tie Bu-Peep — 

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Stay! let 

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Dol - ly's a - «leep. 



Give me your hand, Mary. Hii>h, soft- ly creep, 




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We must not wake her. 



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Fed. 



I) fart ^illiiiiprs. 



Words by J. ANDEESSOHN. 



Animato. 



Music by FEANS ABT. 
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Piuno. 



^(.(-(' a poco. cres. 



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1. If Ishouldsee up-onthyface A smile a-kin to sad-ness, I 

2. Then if I saw the shades depart, Love's peace • ful sky re - veal - ing, And 




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would 'twere mine the cloud to chase, 
marked the sun - shine of the heart 



And fill thy soul with glad - ness, Ay, 

O'er ev - 'rv feature steal - ins; I'd 



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HEART WHISPERS. 





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seek to strew thy path with flow'rs, And whisper, "Thine for-ev-er!" I'd 

welcomedays of calm de-light, And whisper, "Mine for-ev-er!" I'd 





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seek to strew thy path with flow'rs. And whisper, " Thine for -ever!" 

wel - come days of calm de- light. And whisper, "Mine for -ever!" 




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Voice. 



Piano. 



EEIK MEYEE-HELMUND, Op. 5, No. 1. 



f) Allegretto scherzando. 



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A - las! A - las! I've lost my heart Tc a lit - tie maid's blue 
Icli hub mein Herz vcr - lo • ren an ein Ihon - des Aliig • de • 



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eyes; My heart is young, and she so fair, How could it be oth - er - 

UiH, niciii Ilcrz ist Jung, ''ie isi so Kcb, wie konnt'' es auch an • ders 



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Ah ! yes, and I lost my cap to - day, 
Ich liab^ meinen Hut ver - lo 




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THE DOUBLE LOSS. 



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Born a - way by sportive breeze In - to the ve - ry gar - den Where she paced 'neath the 
fort trus ihn mir der WiiiJ, cr luclit' ihn in den Gar - ten zu vteinem hoi- den 



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'.rees. 
Kind. 



Oh! give me Ijack, my dnr - lingj 
' Gicb mir zu-riick, imi I.ieb ■ chen. 



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Give me back my cap! 
g'ied mir zu-riick di-n Hut, 



My heart is thine al - rea - dy, Lost! 
Duin Herz kannst du be - hal - ten, es 










lost thro' my mis - hap! 
ist dir gar zu gut." 



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Htlefj in the giir. 



SCOTCH SONa. 



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1. The bon - nie, bon-nie bairn, ■who sits pok - ing m the ase, 

2. He sees muc-kle cas - ties tow'- ring to the moon ! 



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Glow'ring in the fire wi' his wee round face ; Langh-ing at the 

He sees Ht - tie sod - gers pu'-ing them a' doiin ! Worlds whombling 






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fuf-iin lowe what sees he there? Ha ! the young dreamer's big-ging 
up and doun, bleez-ing wi' a flare — See how he loups ! as they 






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cas-tles in the air. His wee chubby face, and his tou-zie cnr- ly 
glimmer iu the air. For a' sae sage he looks what can the lad-die 




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CASTLIOS IN THE AIR. 




pow, Are laujjli - ins and nodding to tlie dancing lowe :-He'll 

ken ? Ill's tliinkinL' up - on naetliins, like mo - ny might}' men ; A 



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brown his ro - sy 
flee thing niak's us think, 



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singe his siui - ny hair, 
sma' thing niali's us stare, 



There are 



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Glow-'riug at tlie imps wi' tlieir cas - ties in the air. 

mair folk than him big - ging cas ties in the air. 




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3. 

Sic a night in winter mav weel make him cauld : 
His chin upon his buffy hand will soon mak' him auld: 
His brow is brent so braid. O pray that daddy care 
Would let ine wean alone wi' hiscastles in the air! 
He'll glower at the fire and he'll keek at the light! 
But mony sparkling stars are swallowed up by nigh' 
Anider een than his are slamonrcd by a glared 
Hearts are broken, heads are tum'd wi' castles in the air. 

o7o 



Composed by KUCKEN. 



Written and Arr. by LINDLEY. 

AUcyretto. 



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1. Sc-L'! tl lose rib - bous 

2. AV> will march a - 
3.Shaiiit! Lizette, to 



gal - ]y stream 
way to - mor - 
still be we-.^p - 
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ing, I'm a so! - diernow.Li-zette, I'm a sol - diernow.Li-zette, Yes.of 
row, At the break -ing of the day, At the break -ing of the day, And the 
ing, AVIiile there's fame in sture for me, While there's fame in store for me, Think when 




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ing. And the hon - or 
ing. And the mei' - ry 
ing. What a joy - ful 

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I shall 

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get. 

play. 

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With a sa - bre hj' my ^ide, And a 

Yet be - fore I say good - uye, And a- 

Whi'ii to eburfh you're fondly led, Likes«)me 



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THE YOUNG RECRUIT. 




hcl - met on my brow, And a proud steed to ride, I shall rush on the 

last sad parting take, As a proof of your love, Wear this gift for my 

la -dv smartly drest. And a he - ro you shall wed. With a medal on his 




*-^ foe. Yes, I flal-ter me, Li - zetie, 'Tis a life that well will suit; The gay 

sake: Then cheer up my ownLi - zettc, Letnot grief your beauty stain, Soon you'i' 

■breast; Ha! there's not a maiden fair, Bntwitli wel-comc will sii - lute, Thegay 

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life of a 

see the Re 

bride of the 



yonng Re 
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gain. 



cruit 



The gay life of a 

Soon you'll see the Re- 

The gay bride of the 




#1(1 larc. 



SOPRANO. 



Words by HUGH CONWAY. 



Music by J. L. MOLLOY. 



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I. Here is a yift lor your wedding morniny, A dainty lierchief of old. old lace. And it's 
3. How will you look as a bride, I woniler? For fashion clianges each year they say. And I 

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y a ytar since I blush'd he-hind it, A bon - ny bride, with a bright young face; 
am old and the world gone past me, That world of wonders you know to -day, 




Man 
/\nd 



-y a year since it light - ly covered, A sweet ba - by head and its angel gold. When 
the' you love me a lit - tie, darling, The' you be fair for your bridal drest, Some - 




wife 
how 



and n. other, my heart was happy. With all the sweetness that life could hold. 
I think tis an old world fancy. Old lace, old friends, and old times were best. 




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OLD LACE. 



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2. Mark the del - i - cate threads entwining, forming the semblance of rar - est flow'rs, And as 

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close as the threads of our joy and sonxiw, wo - ven in - to this life of ours; 



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On - ly I pray that the days be-fore you, Free, free from all borrow as mine, may be. For 



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you're to be mar-ried to - mor - row, darling. Take it, wear it, and think of me. 
I , . -O. C. 



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57T 



<^tcijring. 



Words by F. G. W. 

Andante con moto. 



Music by F. H. COWEN. 





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dy - ing A - far in the golden west I watch o'er the rippling o - ceanForthe 

shore, Watch-ing a sail a - far Rid - ingthe silv'ry break - ers 






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boat I lovethebest; I ask ofthewheehngsea-gulls That fly o'erthewhisp'nng 

Straight for the harbor bar; My heart is wildly beat - ing Withezchsurgeoftheflow'ing 




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sea I ask of the wheeling sea - gulls That fly o'erthe whisp'ring 

sea My heart is wild - ly beat - ing With each surge of the flowing 



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AsmvTall "''o^r'Kr''^T " .'^' ^^ ""^ =^" ' O^ steers for 
AS my sail - or lad is whis - p'nng, My love, Isteer'dfor 



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f^' . love, my love, I steer'd for thee 

tempo primo. :g; 



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579 ••T*^ 3 



By FEANCIS T. S. DAELEY. 



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FOETUNIO. 



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a tim - - id maid, Hath forced »- 
a pow - - er strong, With ev' - ry 



1 Whatpow'ris this that me,.. 

2 This love so great, this love.. 



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• far in this strange mas - quer - ade ? 
aot for thee doth speed a - long. 



Whatpow'ris this that me, a 

This love so great, this love...... a 



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tim - id maid, Hath forced a - far in this stange mas- quer - ade? 
pow - er strong, With ev' - ry act for thee doth speed a - long. 



As man to 
O may 'st thou 



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By Per. of SEP. WINNER & SON, Owners of Cofyright. 

580 



■WHAT POWER IS THIS? 



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fight, as man 

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to brave all woe, And wan-der forth 'midst dangers great to 

ny years be told, How I love thee, and what hath made me 




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go '^'^^*P°^''''^llove TPs 

bold Thepow'ris/^"^®' ^^^' 



love 



of thee, my King, To whom e'en 




Oisia for 1i verse. 




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its flight doth wing. 



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By STACY GUTER. 



Andante. 



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left a - lone, None to com - fort, none to cheer; 

grow - ing old, Fond compan - ions won a - way ; 



1 . Ah, poor me ! 

2. Ah, poor me! 



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Ah, poor me ! no not one. 

Youth is like a sto - ry told, 



One fond heart to hold me dear. 

Life hath seen its bet - ter day. 



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S<JL1 TAIRE. 



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Sweet 
Joy 



is tlie dream 
is the life, 



That hope awakes, that hope a -wakes. 
Of ear - ly years, of ear - ly years. 



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Af 
Age 



ter the night, 
is the time 



the morn - ing, morn - ing breaks ] 
of thought, of thought and tears!.. 



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Ah, poor 
Ah, poor 



me ! 
me ! 



morn may shine, 
all the world. 



Yet no sun - ny day is mine. 
Seems a re - gion dark and cold, 



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Ah, poor me ! 
Ah, poor me ! 



let tne sigh. Life's a blank to such as I. 

let me sigh, Hope still points to "by - and -by!" 




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Wak, bx th Pght w Jlging. 



(Jllacl)ct ^uf.) 

PHILIP NICOLAI, 1599. 



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33 



1. Wake, a - wake, for night is fly 

2. Zi - on hears the watch-men sing 

3. Now let all the heavens a - dore 



ing, 

ing, 
Thee, 



The 
And 
And 



watch - men on the 
all her heart with 
men and an - gels 



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heights are cry - ing; A-wake, Je- ru - sa - lem, at last! Mid - night hears the 
joy is spring-ing; She wakes, she ris - es from her gloom ; For her Lord comes 
sing be - fore Thee, With harp and cymbal's clearest tone ; Of one pearl each 



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welcome vol - ees, And at the thrilling cry re - joic - es; Come forth, ye vir-gins, 
down all glo - rious. The strong in grace, in truth vie - to - rious; Her Star is ris'n, her 
shin -ing por - tal, Where we are with the choir im - mor - tal Of an -gels round Thy 

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night is past! The Bridegroom comes, awake, Your lamps with gladness take ; Hal-le - lu - 
Light is come! Ah,eome, Thou lilessed Lord, O Je - sus, Son of God, Hal - le - lu - 
dazzling throne; Nor eye hath seen, nor ear Hath yet attained to hear What there ia 






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jah! And for His marriage feast pre -pare, For ye must go to meet Him 

jah ! We fol - low till the halls we see Where Thou hast bid us sup with 

ours, But we re-joice and sing to Thee, One hymn of joy e - ter ■ nal 

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there. 
Thee. 

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By aEOEGE ALEXANDEE STEVENS. 

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1. Cease, rude Bo-reas,blust'ringrailer! List, ye landmen, all to nio; Messmatts, hear a brother 

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sail - or Sing the 


dan-gers 


of the 


sea; 


From bounding billows first in 


motion, "When the 


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dis- tant whirlwinds rise. To the tempest troubled o - cean. Where the seas contend with skies. 



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Hark! the boatswain hoarsely bawling, — 

By topsail sheets and haulyards stand, 
Down top-gallants quick be hauling, 

Down your staysails, — hand, boys, hand ! 
Now it freshens, "set the braces, 

Quick the topKail-sheets let go ; 
Luff, boys, luff, don't make wry faces, 

Up your topsails nimbly clew. 

Now all you at home in safety. 

Sheltered from the howling storm, 
Tasting joys by Heaven vouchsafed ye, 

Of our state vain notions form. 
Eound us roars the tempest louder, 

Tbink what fear our mind enthralls ! 
Harder yet it blows, still harder. 

Now again the boatswain calls. 

The topsail-yards point to the wind, boys. 

See all clear to reef each course — 
jet the foresheet go — don't mind, boys. 

Though the weather should be woree. 
.■"ore and aft the sprit-sail yard get. 

Reef the niizzen — see all clear — 
Hand up, each [ireventer-brace set — 

Man the foreyards — cheer, lads, cheer ! 

Now the awful thunder's rolling, 

Peal on peal contending clash ; 
On our heads fierce rain falls pouring, 

In our eyes blue lightnings flash ; 
One wide water all around us. 

All above us one black sky ; 
Different deaths at once surround us, 

Hark ! what means that dreadful cry*? 



585 



The foremast's gone ! cries every tongue, out 

O'er the lee, twelve feet 'hove deck ; 
A leak beneath the chest-tree's sprung out — 

Call all hands to clear the wreck. 
Quick, tlie lanyards cut to pieces — 

Come, my hearts, be stout and bold ! 
Plumb the well — the leak increases — 

Four feet water in the hold ! 

While o'er the ship wild waves are beating, 

We for our wives and children mourn; 
Alas, from hence there's no retreating ! 

Alas, to them, there's no return ! 
Still the danger grows upon us. 

Wild confusion reigns below ; 
Heaven have mercy here upon us, 

For only that can save us now. 

O'er the lee-beam i? the land, boys — 
Let the guns o'erboard be thrown — 

To the jnnnp, come, every hand, boys, 
See, our mizzenniast is gone. 

The leak we've found, it cannot pour fast. 
We've lightened Iier a font or more; 

Up and rig a jury foremast- 
She rights ! — slie rights !— boys, wear oflf shore. 

Now once more on joys we're thinking. 

Since kind heaven has spared our lives, 
Come, the can, boys, lot's lie drinking 

To our sweethearts and oui- wives: 
Fill it up, about ship wheel it, 

Close to the lips a lirimmer join ; — 
Where's the tempest now, who feels it? 

None — our danger's drowiu'd in wine. 



Jittic ^nnic llnaucg %ah\\z. 



(ARRANGED FOR SMALL HANDS.) 



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LITTLE ANNIE ROONEY WALTZ. 




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(REVERIE.) 



Moderato. 



SEP. WINNER. 





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By Per. of SEP. WINNER & SON, Props, of Copyright. 
588 



"EVENTIDE." 





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GSSTA7 LAHaEL 



Andante tranquillo. 



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590 



FOND HEARTS MUST PART. 



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4ul He 3M\ if alfe in J^ilk Ettite. 



By SUSANNA BLAMIRE. 



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1. And ye shall walk iu silk at-tire, And sil-ler ha'e to spare, Gin ye'll con-sent to 

2. The mind whose meanest wish is pure, Far dearer is to me; And "ere I'm forced to 

3. His mind and manners wan my heart. He gratefu' took the gift, And did I wish to 




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be my bride, Nor think on Don - aid mair. O, whawadbuy a silk -en gown, Wi' 

breakniy faith, I'll lay me down and dee. For I ha'e vow'd a vir- gin's vow, My 

see it back, It wad be waur than theft ; For langest life can ne'er re - pay The 






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a poor broken heart? Or what's to me a sil-ler crown, Gin frae my love I part? 
lov-er's fate to share: And he has gi'en to me his heart, And what can man do mair? 
love he bears to me, And ere I'm forced to break my faith, I'll lay me down and dee. 



S^^S^^ 



BIOGRAPHIES 



OF 



CELEBRATED AUTHORS 

WHOSE PRODUCTIONS APPEAR IN THIS VOLUME. 



Addison, Joseph. — This noted English writer who 
achieved distinction as an essayist, humorist, and mor- 
alist, was born at Milston in Wiltshire on the ist of 
May, 1672. He was destined for the church by his 
friends, but having a taste for literary pursuits, he fol- 
lowed the bent of his genius. Addison held several 
political offices and also became distmguished as an 
author. " He not only made proper use of wit him- 
self," says Dr. Johnson, "but taught it to othei'S. He 
restored virtue to its dignity and taught innocence not 
to be ashamed. This is an elevation of literary char- 
acter ' above all Greek, a1)ove all Roman fame.' ' 
Addison died June 17th, 1719, leaving no child but a 
daughter and was buried in Westminster Abbey. 
Shortly before his death he said to his step-son. Lord 
Warwick, '' I have sent for you in order that you might 
see in what peace a Christian can die.'' 

Alford, Henry. — This English poet and divine, 
commonly known as Dean Alford, was born in Lon- 
don in iSio, and was educated at Trinity College, 
Cambridge. He published in 1835 "The School of 
the Heart and other Poems.'' Says the Edinburgh 
Review, " The present volume appears to us to be the 
beginning of great promise. Extracts so much longer 
than we are in the habit of making are a sufficient 
proof of our sense of the talent displayed in these 
poems. " Dean Alford's reputation as a divine is 
founded on an excellent edition of the Greek New 
Testament. He also published a small volume enti- 
tled, "The Queen's English,'' which attracted much 
attention. His death occurred in 1871. 

Allen, Elizabeth Ackers. — This American poet was 
born at Strong, Maine, October 9, 1832. In i860 she 
was married to Paul Ackers, the sculptor, and after 
liis death married Mr. E. M. Allen of New York. 
Under the pseudonym of "Florence Percy" she 
became known as an author and published in 1867 a 
volume of poems. While her literary work is not so 
abundant as that of many others, she has gained an 
enviable distinction as a graceful writer, with fine 
poetic taste. 

AUingham, William. — This well-known Irish poet 
was born about 1828. His first volume of poems was 
published in 1850, and successive volumes appeared 
38 



up to 1887, the last being entitled, " Irish Songs and 
Poems.'' He held a Custom House appointment in 
England, and in 1864 was granted a literary pension. 
He died in 1889. 

AUston, Washington. — This eminent American art- 
ist and man of letters was born at Waccamaw in 
South Carolina, November 5, 1779. Being of delicate 
health he was sent to Newport, R. I., where he 
remained in school ten years. Having graduated at 
Harvard College in 1796, he soon afterward went 
abroad for the purpose of studying, and perfecting 
himself as a painter. Soon his productions attracted 
wide attention. At length he returned to his native 
land and was engaged on a large painting of " Bel- 
shazzar's Feast" when he died July 9, 1843. ^'^ 
addition to his genius as a painter, Allston possessed 
poetic talent of a high order. He was the author of 
" The Sylphs of the Season and other Poems," pub- 
lished in 1813. Washington Irving says of him : 
"There was something tome inexpressibly engaging 
in the appearance and manners of Allston. He was 
of a light, graceful form, with large blue eyes, and 
black silken hair waving and curling around the pale 
expressive countenance. Everj'thing about him be- 
spoke the man of intellect and refinement." 

Altenburg, Michael. — This German poet is known 
for his " Battle Song of Gustavus Adolphus," which 
for nearly three hundred years has been a popular 
favorite. It stands almost unrivalled for lofty senti- 
ment and majestic style. .Mtenburg was born in 1583 
and died in 1640. 

Andersen, Hans Christian. — \ gifted writer, born 
in Denmark, 1805. Having failed in his early efforts 
as actor and singer, he was placed at an advanced 
school through royal favor, and soon developed those 
remarkable gifts which have made his name known 
throughout the world, especially among the children 
for whom his fairy tales have a singular charm. On 
his seventieth birthday he was presented with a book 
containing one of his tales in fifteen languages. Died 
in 1875. 

Anderson, Alexander. — .A. Scottish poet, born at 
Kirkconnel, April 30, 1845. He was of humble 
origin and worked as a laborer on a railway. In 1873 

593 



694 



BIOGRAPHIES OF CELEBRATED AUTHORS. 



he published " Songs of Labor." Other poems, songs 
and ballads followed and met with a high degree of 
favor. He was recognized as the poet of the laboring 
man, and his songs of labor had a large circulation. 

Arnold, Matthew. — This English poet, a son of Dr. 
Thomas Arnold of Rugby, was born near Staines in 
Middlesex, December 24, 1822, and was educated at 
Rugby and Oxford. He gained prominence as an 
educator and inspector of schools. His first volume 
of poems appeared in 1848, and in 1S57 he was elected 
professor of poetry at Oxford. "For combined cul- 
ture and fine natural feeling in the matter of versifica- 
tion," says the Edinburgh Review, " Mr. Arnold has 
no living superior." His writings embrace prose as 
well as poetry, and his views upon religious subjects 
have attracted wide attention. He received the 
degree of LL.D. from the universities of Edinburgh 
and Oxford. Died April 15, 1888. 

Arnold, Edwin. — Mr. Arnold has visited America 
several times and is well known among the literary 
circles of this country. He was born June loth, 1832, 
was educated at King's College, London, and Univer- 
sity College, Oxford, where he graduated in 1854. For 
a time he held a government position in India as an 
educator. The work by which he is best known is 
entitled, "The Light of Asia," published in 1879. 
This poem was widely read in America and was con- 
sidered to possess many claims for admiration. Mr. 
Arnold is a prolific author, and his works have secured 
a wide circle of readers. His scholarly and finished 
style entitle him to high rank among the authors of 
the day. 

Aytoun, William Edmondstoune. — Was born in 
Edinburg, Scotland, in 1813. His contributions to 
Blackwooa s Maga::ine gained a wide celebrity. Died 
in 1865. 

Bailey, Philip James. — Author of " Festus," "The 
Angel World," and other poems, was born in England 
1816. " Festus " was published when he was twenty- 
three years old, and was received with unusual 
favor. 

Baillie, Joanna. — Among British female poets few 
have obtained a liigher rank, and none during their 
lifetime have been more highly honored. She was 
born near Glasgow in 1762, lived to be almost ninety 
years old and died in 1851. Her first volume was 
entitled, "Plays on the Passions,'' which was well 
received. In 1810 she published "The Family Le- 
gend,'' Sir Walter Scott having written the introduction, 
and one of the principal parts having been performed 
by Mrs. Siddons. The work achieved a brilliant suc- 
cess, and afterward the gifted author enjoyed the 
highest reputation as a successful delineator of char- 



acter and the passions of the human heart. Her 
writings are characterized by intellectual strength, 
bold and vigorous thought, while at the same time 
there is an ease and grace highly appreciated by cuUi- 
vated readers. 

Bancroft, George. — This distinguished American 
historian whose name ranks among those of the first 
writers of the age, was born at Worcester, Mass., on 
the 3rd of October, iSoo. He graduated with honors 
from Harvard College in 1817, and pursued his stu- 
dies further in Germany. He was afterward Greek 
tutor in Harvard College and published a volume of 
poems in 1823. Mr. Bancroft's reputation rests upon 
his historical works, comprising among others a com- 
plete history of the United States. He was appointed 
Minister to the Court of Berlin in 1867, and recalled 
at his own request in 1874. Died January 17, 1891. 

Barbauld, Anna Letitia. — A distinguished English 
authoress, born in Leicestershire, 1743. She was the 
first to publish works especially adapted to children. 
Died in 1845. 

Barker, James Nelson. — Xn American dramatic 
writer, born in Philadelphia in 1784. He wrote two 
comedies, "Tears and Smiles," and "How to Try a 
Lover." Died in 1858. 

Bayly, Thomas Haynes. — This English lyric poet 
and miscellaneous writer was born near Bath in 1797. 
His songs attained great popularity and have done 
more than all his other writings to give him a high 
rank as an author. His works include novels and 
tales, and a large collection of dramatic pieces, all of 
which have found numerous readers. Died in 1839. 

Beaumont, Francis. — An Enghsh dramatic poet, 
born in 1586 and died in 1615. He was a descriptive 
poet of the highest order, wrote in connection with his 
friend John Fletcher a number of popular dramas, 
and was regarded as one of the brightest stars in the 
literary world. 

Beecher, Henry Ward. — The foremost pnlpit ora- 
tor of America, and an author of remarkable versa- 
tility. A number of volumes have been issued, com- 
prising Mr. Beecher's Sermons, Lectures to Young 
Men, Star Papers, one work of fiction, the Life of 
Christ, and Miscellanies. He was born in Litchfield, 
Connecticut, 18 13, graduated at Amherst College in 
1834, became pastor of Plymouth Church, Brooklyn, 
in 1847, and died in 1887. 

Beddoes, Thomas Lovell. — In his nineteenth year 
published " The Bride's Tragedy," which attracted 
wide attention. Born in Clifton. England, 1803; stu- 
died medicine in Germany, and died 1849. 



BIOGRAPHIES OF CELEBRATED AUTHORS. 



595 



Beers, Ethelin Eliot. — Author of the well-known 
lyric, " All Quiet Along the Potomac," and other 
popul.ir pieces, was born in New York in 1827, and 
died ill 1879. 

Benjamin, Park. — Known as a contributor to several 
periodicals, and a poet of considerable distinction. 
Horn in 1809, in British Guiana, where his father was 
engajjed for a number of years in mercantile pursuits. 
Died in 1864. 

Bennett, William Cox. — An English poet, born at 
C.reenwich about 1820. He published several vol- 
umes of poems and gained distinction as a writer of 
songs. His style shows a cultivated taste, and al- 
though he was not a prolific author, what he wrote 
contains little that is not worthy of commendation. 

Bickersteth, Edward Henry. — An English poet, 
born in London, January 25, 1825. He published 
" Yesterday, To-day and Forever," an admired poem, 
and many religiinis and devotional works, including 
several volumes of poetry. 

Bloomfield, Robert. — This poetical genius, an un- 
lettered shoemaker, who achieved great fame, was 
born in Suffolk, England, 1766. While working at 
his trade, he composed a ])oem of 1600 lines, com- 
pleting it before a word was written. It created a 
great sensation when published, and was translated 
into several languages. Bloomfield died insane in 
1823. 

Boker, George Henry. — The autnor of the "Lesson 
of Life and Other Poems,'' published in 1S41, " Cal- 
aynos," a tragedy, published in 1848, and other works, 
including several famous "War Lyrics," was born in 
Philadelphia in 1824. Mr. Boker edited Lippincotf s 
Magazine several )'ears, and subsequently was United 
States Minister to Constantinople and St. Petersburg. 
Died, 1890. 

Bolton, Sarah T. — An American poetess, born in 
Newport, Ky., in 1820. She became widely known 
as .1 contributor to the Home Journal, of New York, 
and other periodicals. 

Bonar, Horatius. — The author of man}' beautiful 
hymns, the fame of which is world-wide, was a native of 
Scotland, and was born in Edinburgh, 1808. He 
was for many years a minister of the Free Church, 
and published several religious works which have 
had an enormous circulation. One of his best known 
pieces is entitled, " Beyond the .Smiling and the 
Weeping." Died in 1889. 

Bowles, William Lisle. — He may be regarded as 
the forerunner of that school of modern poets, such as 
Wordsworth, Southey and Coleridge, who have 
adopted a charming, easy manner, in contrast with 



the stilted, unnatural measures of many who went be- 
fore them. Bowles was born in 1762, died in 1850, 
and was by profession a clergyman. 

Bourdillon, Francis W. — An Enghsh poet, born in 
1852. He was educated at Oxford, and while still an 
undergraduate became famous as the author of a short 
poem entitled, " Light," which was translated into 
the principal European languages. In 1878 he pub- 
lished a volume entitled, " Among the Flowers and 
Others Poems." 

Bowring, Sir John. — An eminent English states- 
man and philologist noted for his attainments. He 
was born in Exeter in 1792. He aimed to be rather a 
critic of poetry than an author of it, yet some of his 
poetical writings are considered of a high order. He 
was made editor of the Westminster Review in 1825, 
and ten years later was elected to Parhament. Con- 
tinuing in office imtil 1849 he was appointed British 
Consul at Hong-Kong and superintendent of trade in 
China. He was knighted in 1854 and returned from 
China in 1S58. Died November 23, 1872. 

Bronte, Emily. — Was born in Yorkshire, England, 
about 1819. She was one of the authors of a volume 
entitled, " Poems by Currer, Elhs and Acton Bell," 
published in 1846. She was also the author of a novel 
entitled, " Wuthering Heights," issued in 1847, the 
merit of which has been variously estimated. Died 
in December, 1848. 

Brooks, James Gordon. — The son of an officer in 
the Revolutionary Army, was born at Red Hook, near 
New York, September 3, 1801. After graduating at 
Union College he studied law, but in 1823 became 
editor of the Morning Courier, New York. In con- 
nection with his wife he published a volume of poems 
in 1829. Died at Albany 1841. 

Brooks, Maria Gowen. — A native of Medford, 
Massachusetts, where she was born in 1795. Southey 
pronounced her " the most impassioned and most 
imaginative of all poetesses." Much of the latter part 
of her life was passed in Cuba, where she died in 
1S45. 

Brooks, Charles F. — An American Unitarian divine 
and poet, born in Salem, Mass., in 1813. He gradu- 
ated at Harvard, and in 1837 was settled as a pastor 
in Newport, R. I. His poetical works consist mainly 
of translations from the German poets, which exhibit 
a clear insight into the original thought and concep- 
tion of the authors, an accurate scholarship and re- 
fined taste. Died at Newport, June 14, 1883. 

Browne, William. — An English poet, born at Tavi- 
stock in 1590. He wrote pastoral poems, which 
gained popularity. Died about 1645. 



596 



BIOGRAPHIES OF CELEBRATED AUTHORS. 



Browning, Elizabeth Barrett. — Mrs. Browning must 
be considered one of the most gifted poets of our time, 
her works appealing especially to people of intel- 
lectual refinement and cultivated taste. In person 
she was slight, with dark hair and complexion ; an 
easy, modest manner and a cordiality which drew to 
her many friends. She was born at Durham, March 
6, 1809. Her father, Mr. Barrett, was a wealthy mer- 
chant of London, who gave his daughter in early life 
the best opportunities for education. At ten years of 
age she exhibited fine poetical talent, which was dili- 
gently cultivated. In 1846 she was married to the 
poet, Robert Browning, with whom she resided in 
Italy for many years. She produced in 1851 " Casa 
Guidi Windows," a poem which treats of the political 
condition of Italy. " This," says the North British 
Review, ''is the happiest of Mrs. Browning's perform- 
ances, because it makes no pretensions to high artis- 
tic character, and is really a simple story of personal 
impressions." Her largest, and withal her greatest 
work, is " Aurora Leigh," a poem, or novel in verse, 
which is greatly admired. This was published in 
1856, and in the same year a new edition of her poems 
was issued in three volumes. She died at Florence, 
Italy, in June, 1861. 

Browning, Robert. — The renowned English poet 
whose works are admired and studied Ijy the most 
cultivated literary circles in America. In 1835 ^^''■ 
Browning wrote his first poem, " Paracelsus," which 
immediately brought him into notice. His collected 
poems were published in 1849, 1855 and 1864. Of 
late years numerous editions have been issued. Born 
in London, 1812. Died in 1889. 

Bruce, Michael. — A Scottish poet born in the county 
of Kinross in 1746. He gave promise of the highest 
distinction, but died at the age of 21, leaving a collec- 
tion of poems of great beauty and pathos. 

Bryant, William Cullen. — Mr. Bryant easily ranks 
among the first American poets and in some respects 
excels all others. A profound love of nature, fine 
poetic fancy, love of home and country and easy ver- 
sification characterize his works, which have struck 
the popular heart and have been widely read. It is 
perhaps not a little singular that his most famous 
poem, " Thanatopsis," was written while yet he was a 
young man before graduating from Williams College. 
Mr. Bryant was born in Hampshire county, Mass., on 
the 3rd of November, 1794. In college he distin- 
guished himself in the languages, became a student of 
law in )8i2, and afterward practiced law for several 
years. He removed to New York City in 1825, and 
soon after became one of the editors of the '' Evening 
Post," which he continued to edit with great ability 
until his death. A collection of his poems was pub- 



hshed in 1832. Soon after he visited Europe and 
traveled in Egypt and Syria, writing letters home, 
which were afterward collected into a volume entitled, 
"Letters of a Traveler." Mr. Bryant was always a 
warm advocate of political reforms, opposed the 
extension of slavery, and ardently supported the 
Union during the civil war. " No poet," say Griswold> 
" has described with more fidelity the beauties of the 
creation, nor sung in nobler song the greatness of the 
Creator. He is the translator of the silent language 
of the universe to the world." Died June 12, 1878. 

Buchanan, Robert. — Born in Scotland, 1841, and 
educated at the University of Glasgow. His versa- 
tility embraces tragedy and comedy, as well as ordi- 
nary poems. 

Burleigh, William H. — An American poet and abo- 
litionist, born at Woodstock, Conn., in 1812, and died 
in March, 1 87 1. He was printer and editor of several 
papers, and published in 1840 a volume of poems 
which were much admired. 

Burns, Robert — Few poets have ever gained so 
strong a hold upon the popular heart as this cele- 
brated bard of Scotland, the anniversary of whose 
birth is still commemorated in his native land and by 
his fellow-countrymen throughout the world. He is 
remarkable for homely simplicity, fine poetic fancy 
and feehng, broad sympathy with humanity, and a 
style wliich is not so elevated as to be above the aver- 
age reader. Burns was born in the town of Ayr, 
January 25, 1759. '^'^ father was a plain farmer and 
battled with misfortunes all his life. Many of the sub- 
jects of Burns' poems are rural in their character. 
His love poems exhibit deep feeling, and some of the 
names, like " Highland Mary," around which he wove 
the charm of liis genius, have become immortal. In 
his day he was honored by many persons of rank and 
fortune, but being addicted to vices which he had not 
the strength of manhood to overcome, he cast a 
shadow upon the otherwise spotless glory of his repu- 
tation. Burns died on the 21st of July, 1796. His 
funeral was attended by many thousand persons, 
including those of every rank and condition, some of 
whom came from a great distance. Nearly twenty 
years after the poet's death, a costly mausoleum was 
erected in the churchyard at Dumfries, whither the 
remains were transferred June 5, 181 5. An appropri- 
ate monument to his memory stands on Calton Hill, 
Edinburgh. 

Butler, Samuel. — The famous author of " Hudi- 
bras" was born at Strensham, England, in 1612, and 
by his wridngs made a marked sensation at the royal 
court and elsewhere in 1663. Died in abject poverty 
in London, 1680. 



BIOGRAPHIES OF CELEBRATED AUTHORS. 



597 



Byrom, John. — Born near Manchester, England, 
1 69 1, graduated at Trinity College, Cambridge, in 
171 1, traveled extensively in France, and died in 1763. 

Byron, Lord. — Byron's genius flashed out like a 
brilliant meteor, compelling attention and, for the 
most part, admiration. He was born m London, Jan- 
uary 22, 178S. In early life he exhibited strong 
passions, an almost ungovernable will, and, at times, 
a rashness which occasionally appeared even in his 
later years. Among his mates he was courageous, 
quick to take an insult, and was never satisfied until 
it had been resented. In 1S05 he went to Trinity Col- 
lege, Cambridge, which he left two years after without 
a degree. During his stay at the University, he pulj- 
lished a volume of poems entitled, " Hours of Idle- 
ness," which was very severely criticised in the 
" Edinburgh Review.'' The poet wrote by way of 
retaliation, his "' English Bards and Scotch Reviewers,'' 
a caustic and scathing satire, which, at the time caused 
a great sensation and convinced the critics that 
Byron's genius was not to be terror-stricken or 
reduced to silence by " paper bullets of the brain.'' 
In 1809 he traveled throughout Europe, and while in 
Greece, surrounded by the classic associations of that 
country, he warmly espoused the cause of Greek inde- 
pendence, a theme wiiich inspired some of his loftiest 
strains. On his return to England, he published the 
first two cantos of " Childe Harold's Pilgrimage," the 
success of which was so sudden and extraordinary 
that, as he tells us, "he awoke one morning and 
found himself famous." Soon after he took his seat 
in the House of Lords, to which by birth he was enti- 
tled. Byron wrote easily and rapidly. His various 
works followed one another in rapid succession. 
Some of his most pathetic verses were inspired by the 
infelicities of his domestic relations. That he had 
great faults has been universally admitted ; nor can it 
be denied that his genius was of the highest order. 
Macaulay's critical pen places him in the front rank 
of modern poets and declares he has never been 
excelled in the expression of scorn, misanthropy and 
despair, and that there is not a single note of human 
anguish of which he was not master. He died on the 
19th of April, 1824, at the early age of 36, yet had 
already achieved undying fame. 

Calverley, Charles Stuart.— An English poet born 
in 1831. He was educated at Oxford and published 
many clever ballads and parodies. He was a man of 
fine scholarship and rich genius, but wrote very little. 
Died in 1884. 

Campbell, Thomas. -.Author of "The Pleasures of 
Hope," and many other poems marked by true poetic 
genius, was a native of Scotland, and was born at 
Glasgow in 1777. After a brilliant literary career, he 



died at Boulogne in 1844, and was buried in Westmin- 
ster Abbey, Lord Macaulay, Dean Milman, and other 
celebrities acting as pall-bearers. Few poems of any 
author have become more generally known, or have 
been received with greater favor. 

Cary, Alice. — This well-known American author- 
ess first came into notice by her contributions to the 
National Era, for which she wrote under the nom dc 
pluineoi " Patty Lee.'' Her " Clovernook," comprising 
sketches of western life, was popular both in America 
and England. Several works of fiction, and various 
poems, have also met with marked favor. Born near 
Cincinnati, Ohio, 1820, died in New York, where she 
resided during the latter part of her life, in 187 1. She 
was also gifted in the portrayal of domestic scenes and 
the charms of country life. 

Cary, Phoebe. — The younger sister of Alice Cary, 
and equally gifted, was born in the Miami Valley, in 
1824, and died in 1871. Her religious writings are 
marked by great beauty and deep feeling, and have 
gained wide popularity. 

Carlyle, Thomas. — This distinguished, and withal, 
eccentric author, gained by his writings a wide celeb- 
rity for originahty, graphic description and vigorous 
English. Bold in thought, a hater of shams, rugged 
in matter and manner,his striking essays forced them- 
selves upon the attention of the public. Mr. Carlyle 
must be considered as one of the most brilliant authors 
of his day. Born at Ecclefechan, Scotland, in 1795. 
Died February 5, 188 1. 

Cheever, George B. — An American author and 
preacher, born at Hallowell, Maine, in 1807, and grad- 
uated at Bowdoin College in 1825. While pastor of a 
Congregational church at Salem, Mass., in 1835, he 
wrote a satirical allegory called " Deacon Giles' Dis- 
tillery," for which he was prosecuted on a charge of 
libel, and sentenced to imprisonment for thirty days. 
He removed to New York city in 1839, published sev- 
eral volumes of a miscellaneous character, and became 
widely known as a preacher and bitter opponent of 
slavery. Died October i, 1890. 

Child, Lydia Maria. — American writer and editor, 
author of a "History of Rome," "The Oasis," etc. 
Born in 1802; died in 1880. 

Choate, Rufus. — The most eminent advocate of 
New England, was born at Essex, Mass., in 1799. 
Soon after he began the practice of law he gained the 
highest distinction. Of vivid imagination, remarkable 
command of language eccentric manner, great orator- 
ical power, he was long considered at the head of his 
profession. Died in 1858. 

Clare, John. — The peasant poet, whose pastoral 
writings have decided merit, was born in Northamp- 
tonshire, England, in 1793, and died in 1864. 



598 



BIOGRAPHIES OF CELEBRATED AUTHORS. 



Conrad, Robert T. — An American dramatist, orator 
and judge, was born m Philadelphia about 1809. He 
produced two tragedies entitled "Conrad of Naples" 
and " Aylmere." which were performed with success. 
Published a volume of poems in 1852. In 1854 he 
was elected Mayor of Philadelphia by the American 
party. Died in 1858. 

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. — One of the most fa- 
mous of English authors. Of magnificent intellectual 
endowments, he was equally distinguished for his con- 
troversial power and imaginary creations. His most 
remarkable poem is the "Rime of the Ancient Mari- 
ner." This, with a number of fragmentary pieces, 
gave him first rank in the literary world, while it is 
conceded that his splendid genius was used but fitfully 
and without the effect of which it was really capable. 
Born in Devonshire, 1752; died in London, 1834. 

Coleridge, Hartley. — The eldest son of Samuel Tay- 
lor Coleridge, and possessed of talents scarcely less 
brilliant than those of his distinguished father. Born 
in England, 1796; died, 1849. 

Cook, Eliza. — The popular authoress of " The Old 
Arm Chair" began her contributions to periodical lit- 
erature at an early age. A volume of poems issued 
ill 1840 was well received. Born in 1817, and re- 
ceived a literary pension in 1864. Died in 1889. 

Cooke, Rose Terry. — Born in Connecticut in 1827. 
Her prose and poetical works are of a high order, the 
prose consisting mainly of short sketches contributed 
to current periodicals. 

Cooper, James Fenimore. — The author of the 
" Leatherstocking Tales,'' and other novels, was born 
at Burlington, N. J., September 15, 1789. His father. 
Judge William Cooper, moved to Otsego Lake, New 
York, when James was an inf:int, where he owned a 
good deal of land. He founded the town of Coopers- 
town, N. Y. Young Cooper grew up there, and used 
to meet many Indians, trappers and old settlers, whose 
stories of adventure he listened to with delight. These 
stories were the material of wliich he constructed the 
novels that have made his name famous. When he 
was thirteen years of age he was sent to Yale College, 
and three years later he entered the navy, where he 
served six years, leaving the service in 181 1, and going 
to live at Mamaroneck, near New York city. His first 
novel, " recaution," written when he was thirty years 
old, was a failure, but two years later he wrote " The 
Spy," which was a great success. His stories of In- 
dian life were, and are, especially popular, and he 
enjoyed the distinction of being the first American 
novelist whose works were translated into foreign lan- 
guages. Cooper died at Cooperstown, N. Y., Septem 
ber 14, 1851. 



Cowley, Abraham. — A celebrated English poet, 
born in London in 1618. At the age of fifteen he 
published a volume of poems called " Poetic Blos- 
soms," which exhibited a high degree of talent. He 
became associated afterwards with the royal family of 
Charles 1., and held important public positions His 
writings were much admired in his day. Died in 
1667. 

Cowper, William. — This celebrated English ^oet, 
the most popular in his generation, infused an earnest, 
even a religious spirit, into nearly all his writings, yet 
his ballad on "John Gilpin," is marked by an exquis- 
ite humor. Cowper was constitudonally melancholy, 
and this threw a shadow over some of his writings. 
Several of his hymns must be ranked among English 
classics. Born in 1731 ; died in 1800. 

Cotton, Nathaniel. — A learned English Puritan min- 
ister, born in 1707 and noted for his skill in the 
treatment of insanity. He wrote" Marriage a Vision" 
and other works in prose and verse which were favor- 
ably received. Died in 1788. 

Crabbe, George. — The people's poet and celebrated 
delineator of lowly life ; also a well-known divine. 
Born in 1754 and died in 1832. 

Craik, Dinah Maria Mulock. — The gifted author of 
"John Ilahfax, Gentleman ;" also a volume of popular 
poems. Born in England, 1826. Died in 1887. 

Croly, George. — Born at Dublin, Ireland, 1785, died 
in i860. A writer of poetry and romances, and a pul- 
pit orator of great reputation. 

Cunningham, John. — A native of Ireland, born in 
1729; died in 1773. A descriptive writer of more than 
ordinary merit. 

Curran, John Philpot. — This famous Irish orator and 
barrister was born of Protestant parents near Cork in 
1750. His mother, whose name was Philpot, was witty 
and highly gifted. He went to London, became a 
lawyer and was called to the Irish Bar in 1775. He 
soon gained a wide celebrity for eloquence, humor and 
sarcasm. In politics he opposed the union of Ireland 
and England which was effected in 1800. In his later 
years he was subject to great and habitual dejection 
of spirits. Died in 1817. 

Daniel, Samuel. — A gifted but neglected English 
poet, born in 1562 and educated at Oxford. The field 
of his efforts was tragedy and history, in both of which 
he showed marked abihty. Died in 1619. 

Darley, George. — A poet and mathematician, born 
in Dublin in 1785, and removed to London in 1825. 
He gained distinction by his poems and contnbutions 
to the periodicals of the day as well as by his works 
on Geometry and Algebra, Died in 1849. 



BIOGRAPHIES OF CELEBRATED AUTHORS. 



599 



Davis, Thomas. — An Irish poet and political writer, 
born at Mallow, in 1814. He was a leader of the 
party called "Young Ireland'' and in favor of a 
repeal of the Union between Great Britain and Ire- 
land. Died in 1845. 

Decker, Thomas. — .*Vn English dramatist, who lived 
in the reign of James I. He wrote several plays and 
other works, presenting a curious picture of the times. 
Died about 1628. 

Denman, Lord Thomas. — An English judge, born 
in London in 1779, and educated at Cambridge. He 
entered Parliament, became Attorney General in 1830, 
and was raised to the peerage in 1834. Having dis- 
charged the duties of judge with credit, he resigned his 
office in 1850 and died in 1854. 

Depew, Chauncey M.— This distinguished citizen, 
prominent in railroad affairs and politics, was born in 
Peekskill, N. Y., in 1834, and graduated from Yale 
College in 1856. In 1861 he was a member of the 
Legislature of New York, and two years later was 
elected Secretary of State, subsequently holding the 
position of President of the " Vanderbilt Roads." Mr. 
Depew is a well-known orator and after-dinner speaker. 

De Vere, Sir Aubrey. — An Irish poet and dramat- 
ist, born in 1788. He published the " Song of Faith," 
" Waldenses," " Mary Tudor," a drama, and other 
-works. Died in 1846. 

Dewey, Orville. — This distinguished Unitarian di- 
vine was born in Sheffield, Mass., in 1794, and gradu- 
ated at Williams College in 1814. He served several 
important churches as pastor and wrote several vol- 
umes which were successful, his writings being charac- 
terized by good sense and excellent taste. Died in 
1882. 

Dibdin, Charles. — Born in England, 1745; died in 
1 8 14. He was the author of numerous popular songs. 
His two sons, Charles and Thomas, composed songs 
and dramas. 

Dickens, Charles. — The great novelist, whose works 
of fiction are known and read throughout the civilized 
world, and who gained a renown unequalled by that 
of any author in recent times, was born at Ports- 
mouth, England, February 7, 1812. Becoming dis- 
gusted with law, for which his father intended him, he 
remDved to London, and became a reporter for the 
Morning Chronicle. His first literary work was a 
series of sketches for this paper. With the publica- 
tion of " Pickwick Papers," Dickens sprang into 
sudden popularity, and thereafter maintained it by 
his wonderful creations in the re.ilm of fiction, and 
the charm of his transcendent genius. Died June 9, 
1870, and was buried in " Poet's Corner," Westmin- 
ster Abbey. 



Dobell, Sydney. — A somewhat eccentric writer, 
composed verses when nine years old, and even then 
showed the strange mixture of the philosophical and 
poetical spirit seen in his later productions. Born 
near London, 1824; died in 1874. 

Dobson, Henry Austin. — This English poet was 
born at Plymouth in 1840, and pubhshed his first 
volume of poems in 1873. I" prose he wrote the 
"Life of Hogarth" and also the " Life of Fielding;" 
also a number of critical sketches of authors and 
painters. 

Doten, Elizabeth. — Born at Plymouth, Mass., in 
1829. She published two volumes of poetry which 
attracted some attention, partly due to their unusual 
merit and partly to the claim that they were dictated 
to their writer by spirits. 

Dryden, John. — One of England's greatest poets, 
whose stately measures and lofty conceptions have 
commanded wide admiration. Dryden was born in 
163 1 and took his degrees at Trinity College, Cam- 
bridge. In 1670 he was appointed poet-laureate, 
with a salary of two hundred pounds a year. His 
most famous production was a magnificent satire on 
the political commotions of the time. Died in 1700, 
and was buried in Westminster Abbey. 

Dwight, Timothy. — An eminent American divine 
and scholar, born at Northampton, Mass., in 1752, 
and graduated at Yale College in 1769. In 1795 he 
was chosen President of Yale College and was made 
Professor of Theology. He had ability as a poet and 
was a preacher of rare distinction. Died at New 
Haven, January 11, 1817. 

Elliott, Ebenezer. — Styled "The Corn-Law Rhy- 
mer," was by occupation an iron-founder. During 
the agitation in England for the repeal of the " Corn- 
laws," he became famous for his spirited verses. Born 
in Yorkshire, 1781 ; died in 1S49. 

Emerson, Ralph Waldo. — Poet and philosopher, 

highly distinguished for originality, profound thought 
and terseness of expression, holding the highest rank 
in American literature, and popularly styled " The 
Concord Philosopher." Born in Massachusetts, 1803; 
resided at Concord, New Hampshire, and died in 
1882. 

Everett, Edward. — One of America's most finished 
orators, whose scholarly, elaborate writings, together 
with his graceful, polished eloquence, gave him great 
celebrity. Mr. Everett was born at Dorchester, Massa- 
chusetts, 1794; filled with honor a number of impor- 
tant positions, both educational and political, and died 
in 1865. He combined the scholar, gentleman, states- 
man and orator in an eminent degree. 



600 



BIOGRAPHIES OF CELEBRATED AUTHORS. 



Field, Eugene. — A popular American poet, whose 
productions, of a pathetic as well as humorous charac- 
ter, have made him widely known. He was educated 
in Massachusetts, thence going to Wisconsin and 
entering journalism. Many of his pieces were written 
for children, and are highly appreciated by the little 
folks. Died in 1896. 

Fields, James Thomas. — In 1871 Mr. Fields retired 
from the publishing firm in Boston, with which he was 
connected for twenty-five years. During this period 
he found time to follow his literary pursuits, and, as 
the author of quite a number of poems, and editor of 
the Atlantic Montk/y, he gained an enviable distinc- 
tion, exerting a powerful influence in American litera- 
ture. Born at Portsmouth, New Hampshire, 1817 ; 
died at Boston, 1881. 

Gilbert, William S. - Joint author with Sulhvan of 
" Pinafore," and numerous other comic operas, which 
have been universally popular, was born in England 
in 1836. 

Goldsmith, Oliver. — The genial spirit and sound 
sense of Goldsmith appear in all his prose and poeti- 
cal writings. In humble life and straitened circum- 
stances, he yet left a rich legacy to English literature, 
and his works have gained high rank. His best known 
prose work is " The Vicar of Wakefield,'' and "The 
Deserted Village" is the sweetest of all his poems. 
His comedy, " She Stoops to Conquer," has enjoyed a 
perennial popularity. Born in Ireland, 1728; died in 
London, 1774. 

Gray, Thomas. — The author of the famous " Elegy 
Written in a Country Church-Yard," has gained a 
world-wide renown by this one poem. His other pieces 
suffer by comparison with this, although they have a 
high degree of merit. Gray was born in London in 
1716, declined the honor of poet-laureate on the death 
of CoUey Cibber, who held that position, and died in 
1771. 

Greene, Robert. — He lived a little before the time of 
Shakespeare, and began to write for the stage about 
1584. From this time he gave himself to a course of 
dissipation, interrupted by occasional fits of remorse. 
One of his novels is said to have been the original of 
Shakespeare's "Winter Tale." He was born in 1560, 
and died in 1592 in great poverty. 

Greeley, Horace. — Our greatest American journalist 
was born at Amherst, N. H., in February, 1811, and 
was the son of a poor farmer, who removed to Ver- 
mont in 1821. Having learned the art of printing, 
young Greelev finally made his way to the city of New 
York. After being connected with several journals, 
he founded the Daily Tribune in 1841, and continued 
as its editor up to the time of his death, in 1872. Mr. 



Greeley was a man of very pronounced opinions, and 
great ability in advocating and defending them. No 
journalist was ever better known to the people at large, 
and none in this country ever exerted so vast an influ- 
ence. In 1872 he was the Liberal candidate for Presi- 
dent of the United States, but failed of election, the 
vote of the country being largely given to Grant. 
He died November 29, 1872. 

Hale, Sarah J. — This gifted American authoress 
was long connected with two periodicals well known 
in their day, The Ladies" Magazine and The Ladies' 
Book. Her writings are chaste, and their moral tone 
is beyond criticism. Born at Newport, N. H., 1795 ; 
died in 1879. 

Halleck, Fitz-Greene. — One of the most spirited 
and popular of American poets, the author of " Marco 
Bozarris," and other pieces of corresponding merit, 
was born in Guilford, Conn., 1790; died in 1867. 

Hall, Robert. — An eloquent English Baptist minis- 
ter, born in 1764. His published works and sermons 
were widely read and much admired for their pro- 
found thought, lofty sentiment and chaste eloquence. 
He died in 1831. 

Halpine, Charles Graham. — Under the assumed 
name of " Miles O'Reilly,'' this author wrote many 
poems and humorous papers which were widely read 
and popular. During the civil war he was a major 
in the Union army. Born in Ireland in 1S29 ; died in 
1869. 

Harte, Francis Bret. — In the realms of poetry and 
fiction, Mr. Harte has found a wide circle of readers. 
He is particularly happy in sketches of pioneer life, 
and delineations of western character. Born in Al- 
bany, N. Y., 1839. 

Hawthorne, Nathaniel. — .A.S a master of language 
and charming writer of fiction, no name in American 
literature holds a higher rank. Hawthorne's cultured 
talent shows itself in his chaste and finished style, the 
highly intellectual quality of his writings, and his fine 
analysis of character. "The Marble Faun,'' " Mosses 
from an Old Manse," and " The House of the Seven 
Gables," are among his most celebrated works. A 
melancholy spirit shadowed his life, yet this seemed 
only to lend greater force and earnestness to his re- 
markable genius. Born at Salem, Mass., 1804; died 
suddenly at Plymouth, Mass., 1864. 

Haywood, Thomas. — An English actor and dra- 
matic author who lived in the sixteenth century. Says 
Charles Lamb : " Haywood was a sort of prose Shake- 
speare. His scenes are to the full as natural and ef- 
fective.'' The dates of his birth and death are un- 
known. 



BIOGRAPHIES OF CELEBRATED AUTHORS. 



601 



Hazlitt, William. — An eminent English critic and 
miscellaneous author, born in 1778. He was the 
author of several volumes of essays, "The Life of Na- 
poleon," and is not surpassed in the whole range of 
English literature for his critical writings. Died in 
1830. 

Hemans, Felicia Dorothea. — Many of Mrs. He- 
mans' poems are household friends and are character- 
ized by rare beauty, loftiness of sentiment and felici- 
tous expression. Born at Liverpool, England, 1794; 
died in 1835. Her genius was exhibited in childhood, 
her first volume, " Early Blossoms," appearing when 
she was fourteen years old. Many editions of her col- 
lected writings have been issued from the press. 

Herrick, Robert. — -An English poet and clergyman, 
born m London in 1591. In the stormy days of 
Cromwell he suffered as a Royalist. A volume of his 
published poems w.is criticised as being too amorous, 
and offensive to popular taste, yet he was accorded 
the first place as a writer of light lyrics. He was re- 
stored to his living from which he had been ejected, 
and died in 1674. 

Hervey, Thomas Kibble. — Known chiefly for his 
satirical poem, " The Devil's Progress." Born in 
England, 1804; died in 1S49. 

Hoffman, Charles Fenno. — Editor, author and poet, 
of New York, whose name was connected with the 
Knickerbocker Magazine, and other periodicals, was 
born in 1806. Died in 1884. 

Hogg, James. — Born in Ettrick Forest in Scotland, 
in 1772, and being the son of a shepherd, was given 
the name of the " Ettrick Shepherd." He was one 
of the best known literary men of his day, his tales, 
poems and contributions to periodical literature giving 
him a wide and enviable reputation. Some of his 
ballads are considered very beautiful. Died in 1835. 

Holland, Josiah Gilbert. — Doctor Holland was a 
scholarly, industrious author, whose works exhibit 
good sense, more than the average literary ability, and 
exert a healthful moral influence. As the author 
of "Timothy Titcomb's Letters," "Bittersweet," 
" Nicholas Minturn,'' and other popular works, and 
founder of Scribners Monthly, he has long been 
favorably known to the reading public. Born at 
Belchertown, Mass., 1819; died in 1S81. 

Holmes, Oliver Wendell. — Our distinguished 
American author, whose writings in both prose and 
poetry have been the delight of his generation, was 
born at Cambridge, Mass., 1809, graduated at Har- 
vard College at the age of twenty, and studied medi- 
cine. His contributions to the Atlantic Monthly 
met with decided f.ivor. Died in 1894 



Hood, Thomas. — The genius, the poet, whose un- 
rivalled productions by their pathos and humor 
awaken alternate tears and laughter, most of whose 
life was a sad struggle with adversity, was born in 
London in 1798. His name is associated with the 
periodical literature of his time, both as manager and 
author. His best known pathetic pieces are " The 
Song of the Shirt," and "The Bridge of Sighs;' 
while " Faithless NeUie Gray," and " Faithless Sally 
Brown,'' are happy specimens of his rollicking humor. 
Hood died in 1845. 

Howe, Julia Ward. — Noted for her philanthropic 
spirit and advanced views on the questions of the day; 
wife of Samuel G. Howe, a well known Boston physi- 
cian and philanthropist; author of " Battle Hymn ot 
the Republic;" was born in New York in 1S19. 

Howitt, Mary. — Born at L'ttoxeter. England, 1804; 
a member of the Society of Friends, married to Wil- 
liam Howitt in 1823; her maiden name was Botham. 
In connection with her husband she wrote "The For- 
est Minstrel," and other poems, which exhibit fine 
literary taste. " Her language is chaste and simple, 
her feelings tender and pure, and her observation of 
nature accurate and intense." Died in 1888. 

Howitt, William. — Author of prose and poetical 
works, was born in Derbyshire, England, 1795. His 
writings are characterized by purity of diction, eleva- 
tion of sentiment, and a high moral tone. Died in 
1879. 

Hoyt, Ralph. — An American Episcopal clergyman 
and poet, born in New York in iSio. In 1844 he pub- 
hshed " The Chaunt of Life and Other Poems." Died 
in 1878. 

Hugo, Victor. — Ranks among the world's greatest 
authors, displaying in his poems and works of fiction 
a genius whose brilliancy stands almost unrivalled. 
As a word painter he has rarely, if ever, been excelled. 
Born in France, 1802; died, 1886. 

Hunt, Leigh. — .\ distinguished name in English 
literature. He was born in London in 1784. At the 
age of twenty-four he became editor and p irt proprie- 
tor of the Examiner, and was a favorite of the literary 
men of the time. Toryism was his abomination, and 
he was not considered to be greatly in love with even 
royalty. For a sarcastic thrust at the Prince Regent 
he was fined five hundred pounds and sentenced to 
two years' imprisonment. I le covered the bars of his 
cell with flowers, and received visits from Byron, 
Shelley and Keats. His release was signalized by ic- 
newed successes in the field of literature, .ilthough a 
work on "Lord Byron and His Contemporaries' 
greatly displeased Byron's friends. Hunt died in 
1859. 



602 



BIOGRAPHIES OF CELEBRATED AUTHORS. 



Irving, Washington. — -An honored American author, 
almost the lii^t of his countrymen to give fame and 
favor to American hterature abroad. Irving was a 
genial writer, a capital story teller with the pen, and 
his works have been received with universal delight. 
Born in New York, 1783; died in 1859. 

Jackson, Helen Hunt. — She made frequent contri- 
butions in prose and poetry to various periodicals, 
usually writing over the signature of " H. H." Her 
literary accomplishments, including a vivid imagina- 
tion and remarkable command of language, place her 
among the most distinguished of her countrywomen. 
Born in Massachusetts in 1831 ; died in 1886. 

Jeffrey, Lord Francis. — A distinguished Scottish 
critic and essayist, born in Edinburgh in 1773. Hav- 
ing failed at the bar, he became associated with a 
number of literary persons, contributing frequently to 
periodicals, and at length was made editor of the 
Edinburgh Review. Subsequently his law practice 
increased and he became a member of Parliament and 
Lord Advocate of Scotland. As a judge he was 
highly esteemed for his conscientiousness and business 
qualifications. His severe criticisms upon authors, 
including Scott, Byron, Wordsworth and others, pro- 
voked much comment and frequently were contrary 
to the popular judgment. Died in 1850. 

Jewett, Sarah Orne.^An American author, born at 
South Berwick, Maine, in 1849. She wrote a number 
of novels which had extensive popularity in their day. 

Jewsbury, Maria Jane. — This bright English au- 
thoress was born about 1800, and died in India in 
1833. She wrote "Lays of Leisure Hours," and 
"Three Histories." She was an intimate friend of 
Wordsworth, who eulogized her talents and habits. 
He said he considered her "unrivalled in one quality 
— quickness in the motions of her mind." 

Johnson, Samuel. — One of the most eminent authors 
of the eighteenth century, was born in 1709. After 
having received a liberal education he became distin- 
guished in all the branches of literature to which he 
devoted his attention. His poems, which are chiefly 
descriptive and satirical, have been greatly admired 
by some of the most eminent critics. In manner he 
was coarse and irritable, possessing great indepen- 
dence of character and sometimes giving offence even 
to his most intimate friends, yet withal was distin- 
guished for sterling benevolence. He died in 1784. 

Keats, John. — A poetical genius who gave unusual 
promise, born in London, 1796; died at Rome, Italy, 
1S21. Leigh Hunt welcomed him as a contributor to 
the Examiner, and he soon gained a wide celebrity. 
His " Endymion " appeared in 1817, and soon after he 
published a volume of miscellaneous poems. His un- 



timely death quenched one of the brightest stars in the 
literary firmament. 

Ken, Bishop Thomas. — A celebrated English pre- 
late, born in 1637 and educated at Oxford. He held 1 
the position of chaplain to royalty, and was a man o< 
learning and stainless virtue. He wrote a number of 
hymns which are still in use. Died in 171 1. 

Key, Francis Scott. — Famous as the writer of the 
patriotic ode, " The Star-Spangled Banner," which 
was composed during the bombardment of Fort 
McHenry, and published in Baltimore the following 
day. Few songs have ever had a popularity so general 
and emphatic. Key was born in Maryland, 1799; died 
in 1843. 

Landon, Letitia Elizabeth. — An English poetess, 
born in 1802; died in 1838. 

Landor, Walter Savage. — Born in England, 1775; 
died in 1864. First became known as the author of 
" Count Julian," which was followed by a poem called 
" Gebir.'' His most celebrated woik is "Imaginary 
Conversations of Literary Men and Statesmen." His 
writings are admired for their originality and perfec- 
tion of style. 

Langhorne, John. — An English poet and translator, 
born in 1735. '^^ became a clergyman of the church 
of England and was the author of works of a miscel- 
laneous character. He vindicated the Scotch against 
the satire of Churchill in a poem called " Genius and 
Valor." Died in 1779. 

Lalhrop, George Parsons. — An American author, 
born in the Sandwich Islands in 1851, and educated 
in New York and Germany. He was assistant editor 
of the " Atlantic Monthly for two years, and subse- 
quently editor of the Boston Courier. He married 
a daughter of Hawthorne, of whose works he is the 
author of a critical review. 

Littleton, Lord George. — An English author and 
statesman, born in 1709. He entered Parliament and 
became a prominent member, acting with the oppo- 
nents of Walpole. He held several important positions 
under the government. Several poems and other 
works from his pen gave him reputation as an author. 
Died in 1773. 

Lockhart, John Gibson. — A distinguished British 
author, poet and critic, born in Lanarkshire, Scotland, 
in 1794. He was the son of a Presbyterian minister 
and was educated for the profession of law, but prefer- 
ring literature, became a contributor to " Blackwood' s 
Magazine. Hii works of fiction and translations of 
ancient Spanish ballads were much admired. His 
most important work is liis " Life of Sir Walter Scott," 
which ranks very high in literary merit and is sur- 



BIOGRAPHIES OF CELEBRATED AUTHORS. 



603 



passed in interest by few, if any, biographies in the 
English language. His manners were reserved and 
even chilling. He died in 1854 leaving a daughter 
who was the only surviving descendant of Sir Walter 
Scott when she was married to Mr. Hope. 

Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth. — ^Our gifted poet 
whose works lend an unrivalled charm to American 
literature, gained a world-wide distinction, and is 
equally honored at home and abroad. Wherever the 
English language is the common tongue, Longfellow 
is read and admired. Surpassed only by Moore in 
ease and elegance of rhythm, some of his productions 
have so touched the popular heart that they have be- 
come familiar in almost every household. His style 
is pure and simple, his thought is clear and trans- 
parent, while there is an elevation of sentiment which 
captivates the most cultivated readers. The career 
of Longfellow began in early life, and was well sus- 
tained for a long period of time. He was born in 
Maine, 1807, was educated at Bowdoin College, was 
made Professor of Modern Languages in that institu- 
tion when he was but nineteen years old, resided a 
considerable part of his life at Cambridge, Mass., and 
died in 1882. 

Lowe, John. — Born in England in 1750, died in 
1798. He wrote the ballad of " Mary's Dream " and 
other pieces which were popular in their day. 

Lowell, James Russell. — Born in Boston, Mass., 
in 1819. By his volumes of poems and contributions 
to periodical literature, he has gained distinction. He 
was editor of the Atlantic Monthly from 1857 to 1862; 
editor of the North American Review from 1863 to 
1872; published "Under the Willows and Other 
Poems" in 1869; and a volume of essays in 1870. 
In 1879 ^^ became United States minister to the 
Court of St. James. Some of his writings are en- 
livened by a broad humor, and have met with a high 
degree of popular favor. Died in 1895. 

Lunt, George. — An American lawyer and miscel- 
laneous writer, born at Newburyport, Mass. In 1849 
he was appointed State District Attorney. His works 
comprise several volumes of poems, two novels, and 
essays on social and political subjec:s. Born in 1803 ; 
died in 1885. 

Lytton, Edward Bulwer, Lord. — Novelist and dra- 
matist, born in England in 1805, died in 1873. His 
dramas, " Richelieu," " Money," and " Lady of 
Lyons," have been received with marked favor, and 
his works of fiction have met with that appreciation 
always accorded to a high order of talent combined 
with painstaking labor. He has been classed with 
Dickens, and other novelists of the foremost rank. 



Lytton, Robert Bulwer (Owen Meredith). — Was 
the only son of Lord Lytton. His poem entitled 
"Lucile," has given him high distinction. Born in 
1831, and was \'iceroy of India from 1876 to 1880. 
Died in 1895. 

Macaulay, Thomas Babbington, Lord. — Famous 

for his historical, poetical, and miscellaneous works, a 
fine master of English diction, member of Parliament 
and the House of Peers, whose productions hold high 
rank in English classics. Born in 1808 ; died in 1859, 
and buried in Westminster Abbey. 

MacCarthy, Denis Florence. — An Irish poet, born 
in 1817. His writings exhibit the strong, national feel- 
ing so characteristic of his countrymen. 

Macdonald, George. — Novelist and poet. His 
writings are moral in tone, and show the marks of 
the scholar and man of culture. Born in England in 
1825. 

Mace, Frances Laughton. — She was a contributor 
to leading magazines, but is best known by one of 
her poems, " Only Waiting," published anonymously 
in 1854, which achieved wide popularity. She was 
born in Maine in 1836. 

Mackay, Charles. — His many poems are largely 
descriptive of the trials of the working classes, with 
whom he had a strong sympathy. He is the author 
of the popular song called " The Good Time Com- 
ing." Both his poems and prose works are well 
suited to touch the popular heart. He was born at 
Perth in Scotland in 1814 and died in 1889. 

Marston, Philip Bourke. — This English poet was 
born in London in 1850. He early lost his sight and 
finally became totally blind. This misfortune, how- 
ever, did not prevent him from pursuing his literary 
occupation. His principal works are " Song Tide," 
" All in All," and "Wind Voices." Died in 18S7. 

Marvell, Andrew. — An English author of works in 
both prose and poetry. Born in 1620; died in 1678. 

Massey, Gerald. — .\n English poet whose hard lot 
in boyhood, as a factory operative, undoubtedly quali- 
fied him for writing poems characterized by deep feel- 
ing and a tender sympathy with humble life. Born 
in 1828. 

Meagher, Thomas Francis. — .A.n Irish patriot, sen- 
tenced to death during the sedition in Ireland in 1848, 
but was transported to Tasmania, whence he escaped 
to New York in 1852, and on the outbreak of the 
civil war became commander of the Irish brigade. 
Born in 1S23 ; drowned in Missouri in 1867. 

Miller, Joaquin. — An American poet and writer of 
fiction. His early life was spent on our western fron- 



604 



BIOGRAPHIES OF CELEBRATED AUTHORS. 



tiers, and the scenes of many of his writings are hiid 
in the West. He is gifted with a high order of imagi- 
nation. Ijorn in Indiana in 1841. 

Milnes. Richard Monckton. — Known as Lord Hough- 
ton, an Enghsh statesman and miscellaneous writer, 
born in Yorkshire in 1809, and educated at Cambridge. 
He was a member of Parliament from 1831 to 1863, 
when he was raised to the peerage. His published 
works include a volume of poems of undoubted merit. 
Died in 1885. 

Milton, John. — The naaie of Milton ranks among 
the greatest in English literature. His prose works 
gained wide celebrity, but he is chiefly distinguished 
for his marvelous creation, " Paradise Lost." His 
blindness seemed only to quicken his inward vision. 
His poetical works brought little pecuniary profit, the 
manuscript of "Paradise Lost'' having been sold for 
twenty-five dollars. Milton's conceptions were of the 
loftiest character, and his style evinces the strength and 
statehness peculiar to the literature of his age. Born 
in London, 1608; died in 1674. 

Mitchell, Walter. — Born at Nantucket, Mass., in 
1836. He is a clergyman and man of letters, being 
the author of several poems of high merit, among 
which is the often-quoted " Tacking Ship off Shore." 

Montgomery, James. — A Scottish poet, distinguished 
for his religious poems, many of which have found 
their way into the hymnology of all Christian denomi- 
nations. Born in Ayrshire, 1771; died in 1854. 

Moore, Thomas. — This celebrated Irish poet, distin- 
guished for true genius, easy versification, and charm- 
ing fancy, was born in 1799, and died in 1852. His 
Irish melodies have a universal popularity. Moore 
was a great social favorite, enjoying the friendship of 
Byron, and other celebrities. " Lalla Rookh " is his 
most elaborate work, and few poems have ever been 
so pecuniarily profitable. 

More, Hannah. — One of England's most gifted 
women. Her first ambition was to shine as a poetess ; 
next she aspired to the stage, and later developed a 
highly religious character, which appeared in her well- 
known, practical writings. Born in 1745 ; died in 1833. 

Morris, George P. — Author of "Woodman, Spare 
that Tree," "My Mother's Bible," etc., productions 
evincing fine poetic talent; born in Pennsylvania, 1S02; 
died in 1864. 

Nairne, Lady Carolina Oliphant. — Born in Perth- 
shire, Scotland, in 1766, and died in 1845. She was 
famed fnr her beauty and talent as a writer. Among 
her works is the song, "The Land o' the Leal," and 
others that were widely read. Her complete poems 
compriseone volume of Rogers' "Scottish Minstrelsy." 



Neal, John. — An iVmerican poet, born at Portland, 
Maine, 1793. His published works include novels and 
poems, and also contributions to leading magazines in 
Europe and America. "The elements of poetry," 
said R. W. Griswold, " are poured forth in his verses 
with a prodigality and power altogether astonishing ; 
but he is deficient in the constructive faculty." Died 
at Portland in 1876. 

Norton, Caroline Elizabeth S., Hon. — An English 

: novelist and poetess of some reputation. She was the 

daughter of Thomas, and granddaughter of Richard 

Brinsley Sheridan, possessed great personal beauty, 

and was a social fiworite. Born in 1808 ; died in 1877. 

Oliphant, Carolina. ^(See Nairne, Ladv CARO- 
LINA OlII'HANT.) 

O'Reilly, John Boyle. — An Irish-.\merican poet and 
journalist, born in Ireland in 1844. Having espoused 
the cause of Home Rule for Ireland, he was tried for 
treason, convicted and sentenced to imprisonment for 
life in 1866, the sentence afterward being commuted 
to penal servitude for twenty years. In 1869 he e 
caped from Australia to the United States, and became 
an editor in Boston. He published several volumes 
of popular songs and ballads. Died in 1890. 

Osgood, Frances Sargent. — Published "A W'reath 
of Wild Flowers from New England," and other vol- 
umes of poems. Born at Boston, Massachusetts, 181 2; 
died in 1850. 

Parnell, Thomas. — An Irish poet, born in Dublin 
in 1679, educated at Trinity College in the same town, 
and died in 1717. He wrote a number of popular 
poems and one work entitled "Allegory on Man." 
Several essays of his appeared in the Spectator, and 
he was also the author of several works of prose. 

Parsons, Thomas William. — Born in Boston in 
1819, this American poet became distinguished for his 
translation of " Dante's Inferno,'' for his poem on the 
Hudson River, his lines on the death of Daniel Web- 
ster, and other miscellaneous writings, all of which are 
of a high order. 

Parton, James. — .\ well known name in American 
literature, by reason of his biographies of Aaron Burr, 
Jackson, Greeley, Jefferson, Voltaire, John Jacob .Xs- 
tor, etc. His writings are brilliant and frequently 
humorous. Born at Canterbury, England, subse- 
quently becoming a resident of New York, and died 
in 1 891. 

Paulding, James Kirke. — A popular American nov- 
elist and miscellaneous writer, born in Dutchess 
County, New York, in 1779. He was associated with 
Washington Irving in the publication of" Salmagundi," 
a series of witty and satirical papers, which were popu- 



BIOGRAPHIES OF CELEBRATED AUTHORS. 



605 



lar. " The Dutchman's Fireside " is the most admired 
of his novels, though all his humorous productions are 
well known, and read with deUght. In 1837 he was 
appointed secretary of the navy by President Van 
Buren. Died in i860. 

Payne, John Howard.— Author of " Home, Sweet 
Home," which was written while he was United 
States Consul at Tunis, where he died in 1852. He 
was born in New York in 1792, and in early life was 
an actor in American cities and in London. His re- 
mains now repose at Washington, D. C. where a 
splendid monument, the gift of Mr. Corcoran, the 
banker, has been erected to the memory of the author 
of our sweetest American song. 

Percival, James Gates.— A writer of poetic fancy, a 
high Older of thought and easy versification. His 
scholarly attainments commend his writings to culti- 
vated readers. He was born in Connecticut in 1795, 
graduated at Yale College in 1S15, and died in 1856. 

Percy, Thomas.— An eminent EngHsh clergyman 
and writer, born in 1728. His reputa ion is founded 
on an interesting work entitled " Reliques of Ancient 
English Poetry," which has been very popular. He 
was the author of other works of a religious character 
and a poem entitled " The Hermit of Warkworth." 
He was a friend of the celebrated Dr. Johnson. Died 
in 1811. 

Piatt, John James.— This author, whose poems have 
gained celebrity, was born in Indiana in 1835, and was 
educated at Kenyon College, Ohio, after which he 
became a printer and journalist. He was Librarian 
to Congress from 1870 to 1875, and was then appointed 
United States Consul at Oueenslown, Ireland. His 
published works exhibit marked ability and evidences 
of the true poet. 

Pierpont, John.— Unitarian divine and ])oet, promi- 
nent in the great reforms of the present century, and 
author of several excellent hymns, and more elaborate 
poems. He was born in Litchfield, Connecticut, in 
1785, and died in i865. 

Pike, Albert.— Born at Boston in 1S09, and died in 
1 891. He removed to the Southwest in 1834, and be- 
came a journalist. His published works include 
■■ Prose Sketches and Poems," " Hymns to the Cods," 
etc. He commanded a body of Indians fighting 
against the Union at Pea Ridge in 1862, and after- 
ward was editor of the Memphis Appeal. 

PoUok, Robert.— Celebrated for his poem, " The 
Course of Time." He was born in Renfrew, Scotland, 
in 1799, licensed to preach in 1827, the year that gave 
birth to his poem, and in which he died. 

Pope. Alexander.— The high distinction gained by 
this English poet, ranking him with Dryden, and, as 



some critics maintain, with even Milton and Shakes- 
peare, is due to elevation of thought, a subtle philos- 
ophy and unusual skill in versification. He was the 
son of a linen draper, and was born in London m 
1688. From childhood he exhibited marked traits of 
genius, was a precocious scholar, and his writings soon 
attracted universal attention. "His ' Essay on Man,' " 
says Dr. Johnson, " affords an egregious instance of 
the predominance of genius, the dazzling splendor of 
imagery and the seductive powers of eloquence." He 
was a great master of invective and sarcasm, retorting 
upon his critics with polished wit. In person he was 
deformed, uninteresting, irritable, and most unprepos- 
sessing. I!c died in May, 1744- 

Praed, ^A^mthrop Mackworth.— An English poet 
and lawyer, born in London in 1802, and educated at 
Trinity College, Cambridge. He gained prizes for a 
Greek ode and for English poems. He was admitted 
to the bar in 1829, and soon after became a member 
of Parliament, where he gained distinction as a suc- 
cessful debater and a zealous conservative. His poems 
are highly commended for wit and eloquence. Died 
in 1839. 

Prescott, William Hickling.— As a historian Mr. 
Prescott is pre-eminent, his works exhibiting the high- 
est order of talent and holding first rank m American 
literature. In patient detail, in accurate judgment, in 
high moral quality, in ease and elegance of style, he 
is unsurpassed and almost unrivalled. Notwithstand- 
ing impaired eyesight, he pursued his literary labors 
with great zeal, and left behind him standard works of 
undoubted value. He wrote the history of " Ferdinand 
and Isabella," the success of which was of the most 
flattering kind, and placed him in the highest rank of 
contemporary historians. This was followed by the 
"Conquest of Mexico." Then appeared the "Con- 
quest of Peru." All of these works possess an un- 
usual degree of merit. Born in Massachusetts, 1796; 
died in 1859. 

Procter, Adelaide Anne.— An Enghsh poetess, born 
in London in 1S25, and daughter of Bryan W. Procter, 
the well-known author. She contributed to several 
periodicals, and published, in 1858, "Legends and 
Lyrics." A second volume, under the same title, ap- 
peared in 1 86 1. Died in 1864. 

Procter, Bryan Waller (Barry Cornwall).— A popu- 
lar ballad writer, whose effusions met with decided 
favor when published, and possess the charm which 
assures enduring fame. Procter was born in Eng- 
land in 1790, was a barrister at law by profession, and 
died in 1864. 

Randall, James Ryder.— The author of the famous 
lyric, " My Maryland," which was very popular during 



606 



BIOGRAPHIES OF CELEBRATED AUTHORS. 



the civil war, was born in Baltimore, Md., in 1839. 
He chose the profession of journalism, in which he 
was successful, and contributed to various periodicals 
poems noted for their patriotic spirit. 

Read, Thomas Buchanan. — The lyric entitled 
"Sheridan's Ride," commemorating one of the ex- 
ploits of the great cavalry General, has had a more 
general reading than anything of the kind ever pub- 
lished in this country. The author excelled in this 
style of poetry. His genius is unquestioned. The 
poem entitled "The Closing Scene," is said by the 
Wcstiniiister Rez'iew to be the finest written in the 
present generation. Mr. Read was born at Chester, 
Pennsylvania, in 1S22, and died in 1872. 

Riley, James Whitcomb. — " Ihe Hoosier poet of 
America," was born in Greenfield, Indiana, in 1853. 
Over an assumed name he began to contribute verses 
in the Hoosier dialect to the Indianapolis papers in. 
about 1875, which attracted considerable attention. 
Since then his productions have been widely read. 
They are characterized by a rich vein of humor, as well 
as pathos, and their setting in dialect gives them addi- 
tional charm and interest. 

Rogers, Samuel. — .Author of " The Pleasures of 
Memory," and a poem on " Italy." He was a banker 
in London, of high social position, and eminent in 
literary circles. Born in London in 1763 ; died in 1855. 

Rodger, Alexander. — First a weaver, then a pawn- 
broker, then a journalist in Glasgow, he became noted 
for his humorous songs. Born in Scotland in 17S4; 
died in 1846. 

Roscoe, W. S. — An English poet, born in 17S1. He 
was the author of a successful volume of poems. Died 
in 1843. 

Rossetti, William Michael. — He was noted as a 
critic both of literature and art. He wrote a life of 
the poet Shelley and a blank-verse translation of 
Dante's " Inferno.'" Born in London in 1829. 

Rosetti, Christina Georgiana. — An English poetess, 
born in 1830, and the author of many popular songs 
and stories. Her genius is universally acknowledged. 

Sargent, Epes. — Poet and journalist, author of edu- 
cational works, etc., born in Boston, Massachusetts, 
1812; died in 1880. He is widely known as the author 
of the famous ballad, "A Life on the Ocean Wave." 

Saxe, John Godfrey. — A poet who excels all other 
American versifiers in genuine humor, whose writings 
have gained extensive popularity; born at Highgate, 
Vermont, 1816; died in 1886. 

Schiller, Friedrich von. — One of Germany's greatest 
poets. He was also famous as a historian and miscel- 
laneous writer. His poems show intense feeling, and 



were colored by his own strong individuality. He 
also gained distinction as a dramatist, " William Tell " 
being his most popular drama. He was born in 1759 
and died in 1805. 

Schoolcraft, Henry Rowe. — A noted American 
author, born in New York in 1793. He became a dis- 
tinguished scientist, and for a time held a position as 
geologist under the government. His writings relate 
mostly to his expeditions and descriptions of the 
various Indian tribes of the country. His works are 
considered as among the most important contributions 
to the physical geography of the United States. Died 
in 1864. 

Scott, Sir Walter. — The renowned Scottish novelist 
and poet, whose immortal works, celebrating the his- 
tory and romance of his native country, have had a 
phenomenal popularity, was born in Edinburgh, 1771. 
Of delicate health in early life, he slowly advanced to 
a sturdy manhood, and became distinguished as an 
author at a period comparatively late. His works are 
voluminous, the " Waverly Novels" being among the 
lamous works of fiction, while " The Lay of the Last 
-Minstrel," and "The Lady of the Lake," hold high 
rank in the realm of poetry. Died in 1832. 

Sedgwrick, Catherine Maria. — Born at Stockbridge,. 
Mass., in 1789. Her first publication was entitled, 
" The New England Tale," and was received with 
universal favor. A number of other novels followed, 
which served to increase her reputation. Some of her 
writings were prepared especially for children, the 
moral tone of which was highly commended. Died 
in 1867. 

Shakespeare, William. — He lives in a kingdom by 
himself Few of the works of other authors have ever 
approached his sublime creations. Born at Stratford- 
on-Avon, England, April 23, 1564; an actorin London, 
1589; author of dramas to the number of thirty- seven ; 
retired to his native town in 1610; did in 1616, and 
was buried in the church vaults at Stratford. A drink- 
ing fountain, presented to his town by Mr. George W. 
Childs, of Philadelphia, in 1887, was a fitting testi- 
monial of the admiration felt by Americans for the 
works of the greatest of all dramatists. 

Shelley, Percy Bysshe. — .V brilliant young English 
poet, who died at the age of twenty-eight, in 1822. 
His liberal opinions upon social and religious ques- 
tions prejudiced the minds of many, yet in the later 
review of his poems the world has been forced to con- 
cede to him the highest order of genius. His poem 
on "The Cloud" is not surpassed by anything of its 
kind in the English language. 

Sheridan, Richard Brinsley,— Famous for his wit, 
dramatic and oratorical talent, as well as for his reck- 



BIOGRAPHIES OF CELEBRATED AUTHORS. 



607 



less liabitj, was born in Ireland, in 1751, and died in 
1816. 

Sidney, Sir Philip. ^An English gentleman, soldier 
and author, possessed of rare accomplishments, born 
in 1554, and educated at Oxford. He was the author 
of plays, romances and poems, and was considered 
one of the ripest scholars and most successful authors 
of his time. He accompanied Sir Francis Drake in 
his expedition aj^ainst the Spaniards, was mortally 
wounded at Zuthpen, and died in 1586. 

Sigourney, Lydia Huntley. — A name honorably as- 
sociated with our country's literature, and representing 
abilities of a high order. Mrs. Sigourney was a poetess ■ 
from childhood, and although never reaching the lofty 
flights of some of her contemporaries, her writings 
have the charm of deep feeling, elevation of sentiment, 
and graceful expression. She was born at Norwich, 
Connecticut, in 1791, and died in 1865. 

Silliman, Benjamin. — Few names in the scientilic 
world have ranked higher, and few men have been 
more enthusiastically devoted to scientific investiga- 
tion. His attainments and discoveries have made 
him celebrated both at home and abroad. He was 
born in Connecticut in 1779, became a professor in 
Yale College in 1802, and after a long and brilliant 
career, died at New Haven in 1864. 

Smith, Charlotte. — A popular English novelist, born 
in 1749. Her novels and poems enjoyed great popu- 
larity, and after her death in 1806, her life was written 
by Sir Walter Scott. 

Smith, Horace. — Famous for his wit ; was the author, 
with his brother James, of " The Rejected Addresses," 
and other popular works. Born in England, 1779; 
died in 1849. 

Southey, Caroline Bowles. — Second wife of the poet 
Southey, an authoress of wide lepute, born in England, 
1787 ; died in 1854. 

Southey, Robert. — He gained an enviable position 
as writer of prose and poetry, and like Wordsworth, 
maybe called a " poet of nature." Born at Bristol, 
England, 1774; made poet-laureate, 1813, and died in 
1843. 

Stedman, Edmund Clarence. — journalist, poet, and 
critic, was connected witli newspapers in Norwich and 
Winsted, Connecticut, before devoting himself wholly 
to authorship. Few of the younger poets of America 
have gained the favor granted to his writings, which 
are marked by severe taste and scholarly culture. 
Born at Hartford in 1833. 

Sterling, John. — .\ meritorious poet, born in Scot- 
land, 1806; died in 1844. 



Stevenson, Robert Louis. — A Scottish author, born 
in Edinburgh in 1S50. He was bred an engineer, Ijut 
studied law. His works are widely known, among 
them being " Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde." Died in the 
island of Samoa in 1896. 

Stoddard, Richard Henry. — Our American poet, 
whose chaste and elegant writings have graced the 
literature of his native land, published his first volume 
in 1842, and a complete edition of his works in 18S0. 
Most of his life has been devoted to journalism in New 
York ; he was at one time editor of The Aldine, an 
illustrated journal of first rank. Born at Hingham, 
Massachusetts, 1826. 

Stowe, Harriet Beecher. — .\ name which holds 
highest rank in American literature. As the author of 
"Uncle Tom's Cabin" she gained a world-wide cele- 
brity. Her subsequent writings have met with very 
high appreciation, and few authors in modern times 
have had so large a circle of readers and admirers. 
Born at Litchfield, Connecticut, 1812. Died 1896. 

Street, Alfred Billings. — Kw. American poet and 

miscellaneous writer, born at Poughkeepsie, New York, 
in 181 1. He practiced law in Albany, and was the 
author of several poems which were favorably received. 
Died in iSSl. 

Sumner, Charles. — Noted for his scholarly attain- 
ments, his brilliant orations and strong anti-slavery 
sentiments. His speeches in Congress and elsewhere 
were finished productions which commanded wide 
attention. He was born in Boston, Mass., in 181 1, 
and died in 1874. 

Swain, Charles. — An engraver by occupation, and 
possessed of natural genius which distinguished him as 
a poet. Born in England, 1803, died in 1874. 

Swift, Jonathan — An acknowledged genius, whose 
humorous and satirical writings gave him great fame. 
He was born of English parents in Dublin, Ireland, in 
1667; author of " The Tale of a Tub," "Gulliver's 
Travels," and other works which have gained celebrity. 
Died in 1745. 

Swinburne, Algernon Charles. — .-^n English poet, 
whose works have Ijeeu admired for their genius, and 
severely criticised for their lack of moral sentime t. 
They show a strange oijscurity in style, combined with 
a remarkable variety of unusual measures. Born in 
1837. 

Talmage, Thomas De Witt. — This widely-known 
clergyman was born in New Jersey in 1S32, and grad- 
uated at the University of the City of New York in 
1853. After holding various Dutch Reformed pastor- 
ates, he settled over a Presbyterian church in Brooklyn 
in 1869. Having been deprived by fire of his T.iber- 
nacle on two different occasions, he removed to 



608 



BIOGRAPHIES OF CELEBRATED AUTHORS. 



Washington in 1895. He has pubUshed several vol- 
umes of sermons and other works of a miscellaneous 
character. His style is graphic and often humorous. 

Taylor, Benjamin Franklin. — -.\n American poet, 
born at Lowville, New York, in 1S22, and educated at 
Madison University. For many years he was con- 
nected with tlie Chicago Evening Journal. He pub- 
lished a number of volumes in prose and poetry which 
possess undoubted merit. Died in 1887. 

Taylor, Bayard. — Renowned as author of works of 
travel, eminent also as poet and miscellaneous writer. 
For many years he was a journalist, and was connected 
with the New York Tribune. Born at Kennett Square, 
Pennsylvania, 1825 ; died while United States Minister 
at Berlin, Germany, in 1878. 

Tennent \A/illiam. — The author of several dramas, 
a humorous poem entitled " Anster Fair," and other 
poetical pieces. He was born in Fifeshire, Scotland, 
in 1785, and appointed Professor of the Oriental Lan- 
guages at St. Andrew's University in 1S35. He died 
in 1848. 

Tennyson, Alfred.^England's poet-laureate, born 
in 1809. His splendid genius gave him the first place 
among English poets. His works are marvels of 
beauty, profound thought, ardent feeling and felicitous 
style. Tennyson is perhaps even more popular in 
America than in his own country. Died in 1892. 

Thackeray, William Makepeace. — One of the fore- 
most English autliors, almost unrivalled in the realm 
of fiction. His fine deUneations of character, subtle 
humor and poetic fancy give to his writings unwonted 
charm. He was born in Calcutta in 1811, and edu- 
cated at the University of Cambridge, England. For 
many years he was a contributor to Punch and other 
periodicals, and gained great popularity. He died in 
1863. 

Thaxter, Celia. — The author of several volumes of 
poems and pro^e fiction, all of which have been well 
received by the reading public. She was born in New 
Hampshire in 1S35. 

Thompson, James. — The distinguished author of 
" The Seasons," in which word-painting is carried to a 
high degree of perfection. His writings are rich in 
thought and e.xpression, and are remarkable alike for 
simplicity and luxuriance of language. Born in 1700; 
died in 1748. 

Thornbury, George ^Walte^. — An English writer, 
born in 1828. His works embrace history, art criti- 
cism and fiction. Died in 1876. 

Thurlow, Lord Edward. — A name of high distinc- 
tion in English history. He was born in Suffolk in 
1732, and educated at Cambridge. He rose rapidly 



in his profession of law, and obtained the rank of 
King's Counsel. His published writings^re scliolarly, 
and suited to the most cultivated minds. Died in 1S06. 

Tonna, Charlotte Brown. — Under the name of Char- 
lotte Elizabeth, siie wrote many popular works, mostly 
of fiction, yet she possessed poetic talent to an unusual 
degree. She was born in Norwich, England, in 1792, 
and died in London in 1846. 

Trowbridge, John Townsend. — The popular author 
of character poems, also of juvenile works, was born at 
Ogden, New York, in 1827. Few writers are more 
entertaining, or deservedly popular. In wholesome 
humor he particularly excels. 

Tuckerman, Henry Theodore. — Editor, essayist, 
journalist, autlior, excelling in eacli department of lit- 
erary labor; born in Boston, Massachusetts, in 1813; 
died in 1S71. 

Tupper, Martin Farquhar. — A popular English poet 
and novelist, born in London in 1810. In 1839 ^^ 
published his "Proverbial Philosophy," which imme- 
diately became popular in both England and .America 
and passed through many editions. He was the author 
of several other works. Died in 1889. 

Waller, Edmund. — Popular as a poet in his day, but 
not celebrated subsequently. Many of his poems, 
however, are well wortli reproducing, and have un- 
questioned merit. He was born in England in 1605, 
and died in 1687. 

Ward, Elizabeth. — Mrs. Ward published her first 
and withal most popular work, "Gates Ajar," in 
1869, and from that time has been prominent as a 
writer of fiction and poetry. Her conceptions are 
original ; the intellectual quality of her works is pro- 
nounced, and her career has been highly successful. 
She was born in Massachusetts in 1844. 

Warfield, Catharine Ann. — The author of a volume 
of poems and several works of fiction. She was born 
in Mississippi in 1815, and died in 1878. 

Warner, Charles Dudley. — One of our most popular 
American authors, born in Massachusetts, in 1829, and 
educated at Hamilton College, New York. He studied 
law, and in 1857 was admitted to the Philadelphia Bar, 
but afterwards became a journalist at Hartford, Conn. 
" My Summer in a Garden," " Back-Log Studies," 
" My Winter on the Nile," and " Being a Boy," are 
among his best known works. In connection with 
Mark Twain he produced " The Gilded Age," a novel 
and play. His writings have a genuine humor and 
abound in graphic descriptions. 

Watts, Alaric Alexander. — An English journalist 
and author, born in London in 1799. He was con- 
nected with several periodicals, and in 1851 published 
"LyricsoftheHeart and other Poems." Died in 1864. 



BIOGRAPHIES OF CELEBRATED AUTHORS. 



609 



Wayland, Francis. — Eminent as a preacher and 
theologian, born in New York in 1796. Graduated 
from Union College in 1S13, and became President of 
Brown University in 1826. In addition to theological 
works, he published a volume on " Intellectual Phi- 
losophy.'' Died in 1865. 

Weir, Harrison William, — .\n English artist, born 
at Lewes in 1S24. He gained distinction as an en- 
graver and also as a contributor to current literature. 

Westwood, Thomas. — An English poet, born in 
1 814. Under various titles he jjublished poems which 
were well received and widely read. Died in 18SS. 

White, Henry Kirke. — One of England's gifted 
young poets, whose early death was much lamented. 
He had already given sign of unusual distinction as a 
poet, and his works are still treasured by the lovers of 
pure sentiment and vivid coloring. Born in 1785 ; 
died in 1806. 

Whitman, Walt. — This well-known, and withal 
eccentric, American poet was born at West Hills, 
Long Island, in 1819. His education was obtained in 
the public schools, and afterward he became both a 
printer and a carpenter. For a time he was a jour- 
nalist in New York. His volume entitled '' Leaves of 
Grass'' was published in 1855, and this was followed 
by other poetical works in 1865, 1873, and 1883. Mr. 
Whitman's ideas were considered "advanced," yet his 
genius has been conceded by eminent critics. 

Whitman, Sarah Helen. — An American poetess, 
born in Rhode Islani in 1813. Published a volume 
of poems in 1853 ^"'i other works at later periods. 
Died in 1878. 

Whittier, John Greenleaf. — "The Quaker Poet.'' 
His writings are models of spiritual, benevolent, and 
39 



patriotic sentiment. Having a warm sympathy with 
the poor and oppressed, he has employed his graceful 
pen with fine effect in the cause of humanity, and no 
author of our time is more beloved. Born at Haver- 
hill, Massachusetts, 1807. Died in 1892. 

Wilcox, Carlos. — Author of a poem entitled "The 
Religion of Taste," and of another called "The Age 
of Benevolence." He was born in New Hampshire 
in 1794, studied theology at Andover, Mass., and died 
in 1827. 

Wilcox, Ella Wheeler — The latest addition to 
American poets; a resident of Michigan, and subse- 
quently of Connecticut. She has been a contributor 
to the press, and has also issued two volumes of poems. 

Willis, Nathaniel Parker. — A poet of distinction, 
whose "Sacred Poems" especially, have had a large 
circle of admirers. His versification is easy, and his 
descriptions abound in word painting of a high order. 
Willis was also successful as a journalist, and a favor- 
ite in general society. Born in Portland, Maine, 1807; 
died in 1867. 

Wotton, Sir Henry. — An English statesman and 
writer, born in 1568, who took a prominent part in 
political affairs, published several beautiful poems and 
prose works which gave hnii a high rank among the 
authors of his time. Died in 1639. 

Wordsworth William. — A great name in the litera- 
ture of England. Wordsworth has been called "the 
poet of nature," his vivid descriptions of the external 
world being among the finest products of his pen. His 
writings show a certain gravity and thoughtfulness 
which render them enduring monuments of literary 
genius, although hindering the sudden appreciation of 
their transcendent excellence. Born in 1770; made 
poet-laureate in 1843; died in 1850. 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



PAGE 

A beautiful and happy girl 251 

A Boston master said one day 487 

Above me are the Alps 347 

A child laid in the grave 442 

Across the narrow breach we flit 94 

A cry comes over from Oregon 181 

Adieu, adieu ! my native shore 444 

Adieu ! ye withered flowerets 128 

Admired Miranda 442 

A fairy woke one winter night 236 

" A fellow's mother," said Fred the wise . . 355 

A fox was trotting on one day 439 

A glint of blue in the winter sky 434 

A glory smites the craggy heights 73 

A gold fish swam in a big glass bowl .... 492 

"A good new year," so let it be 431 

A harebell hung its willful head 81 

Ah, no! I cannot say, "Farewell" .... 35 

Ah, poor nie ! left alone 582 

Ah! what is love? 191 

Ah! what pleasant visions haunt me .... 151 

Ah well ! we are wiser at last 174 

Ah ! whence yon glare 290 

A kiss he took and a backward look .... 452 

Alas, alas ! I've lost my heart 570 

A letter I've had from my own true lad . . 550 
A little bird once met another bird .... 199 
A little brook half hidden under trees . . . 310 

A little downy chick one day 358 

A little maid witli sweet blue eyes 376 

All are architects of fate 431 

All is finished, and at length 143 

All hail to the ruins, tlie rocks and the shores 138 

All the while my needle traces 333 

Alone in the house, who would dream it? . . 22 

Along the frozen lake she comes 306 

Along the streets one day 400 

Alow and aloof 100 

Although I enter not 189 

A maiden sat at her window wide 229 

A man by the name of Bolus 503 

A million little diamonds 371 

A miracle of gleaming dyes 45 

Among.st the thunder-splintered caves . . . 246 
And in the frosty season when the sun . . . 126 

And on her lover's arm she leant 170 

And soon, observant of approaching day . .112 

And so the hours kept tolling 135 

And thou hast stolen a jewel, death .... 381 

610 



nan 

And ye shall walk in silk attire 692 

An Indian girl was sitting where 234 

An old and crippled veteran 217 

An old farm-house, with meadows wide ... 24 

A peacock came 504 

A proud young mother in the glow .... 51 

Arabella was a school girl 222 

A rich man died 431 

Around the adjoining brook that purls along 114 

Around this lovely valley rise 91 

Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slum- 
bers ? 330 

A small, brisk woman, 205 

A softening thought of other years .... 39 

As by the shore at break of day 257 

As I rummaged through the attic ..... 249 
As one by one withdraw the lofty actors . . 397 
As one who cons at evening o'er the album . 21 

A sorry little maiden 355 

As Pat, an odd joker 497 

As the little white heai-se went glimmering by 355 
As the wings of an angel might guard . , . 196 

A swallow in the spring 62 

A sweet little voice comes ringing 196 

At his post the little major 259 

At home, abroad, by day or night 365 

At my window, late and early 42 

A thousand miles from land are we .... 63 
A touch, a kiss ! The charm was snapt . . . 170 
At summer eve when heaven's ethereal bow . 248 
Awake! The starry midnight hour .... 169 
"Away! Away!" cried the stout Sir John . 271 

A weary, wandering soul am 1 475 

A wanderer far in the gloomy night .... 468 
A werry funny feller is de old plantation nuile . 495 
A widow-ljird sat mourning for her love . . 446 

A wounded chieftain, dying 202 

Avaunt thee, horrid war 292 

A)', gather Europe's royal rivers all ... . 73 
Ay, tear her tattered ensign down 285 

Back in the noisy man-made town 31 1 

Back to the farm these autunm days . . . .318 
Backward, turn backward, oh time in your 

flight 433 

Beautiful toiler, thy work all done 475 

Before I trust my fate to thee 183 

Bending between me and the taper 189 

Ben Fisher had finished his hard day's work . 218 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



611 



l-AGE 

Beneath the forest's skirts I rest 81 

Beneath the shadows of the trees 172 

Beside the stream the grist-mill stands . . . 318 
Between broad fields of wheat and corn ... 34 

Black shadows fall 424 

Bland as the morning breath of June ... 68 

Blaze with your serried columns 400 

Bless the old year ! He's almost gono . . . 440 
Blest charity, the grace long-suffering kind . 23 
Blest is the hearth where daughters gird the fire 37 

Blessed yet sinful one 468 

Blow, blow, thou winter wind 125 

Blow high, blow low, let tempests tear . . . 139 

Bobolink I that in the meadow 62 

Bonnie wee thing, caunie wee thing 164 

Born of the prairie and the wave 201 

Both gallantly and merrily 145 

Boys of spirit, boys of will 365 

Brave hearts that wage a never-ending strife . 466 
But see the fading, many-colored woods . .117 

By his evening fire the artist 231 

By the hope within us springing 288 

Calm on the breast of Loch Marec 465 

Can you forget me? I, who have so cherished . 168 
Cease, rude Boreas, blust'riiig railcr .... 585 
Chained in the market-place he stood .... 224 
Cheer up, chillen, an' move yoh feet .... 340 

Close by the embers 250 

Clear, placid Leman 341 

Childhood's loved group revisits every scene . 246 
Cold in the earth and the deep snow .... 254 

Come away, children 360 

Come home 50 

Come from my first, ay come 410 

Come back, come back together 362 

Come in the evening or come in the morning. 168 
Come, hsten to my song, it is no silly fable . . 324 
Come, sjiort with the sea-gull — come ride on 

the billows 135 

Conductor Bradley, always may his name . . 208 
Cool shades and dews are round my way . . 67 
Courage ! Nothing can withstand 420 

Darlings of the forest 92 

Daughter of God ! that sit'st on high .... 287 

Dear Chloe, while the busy crowd 420 

Dear little hands, I love them so 448 

Dearest love ! believe me 24 

" Deserter !" Well, Captain 279 

Did you ever meet a robber? 364 

Dimes and dollars, dollars and dimes . . . 425 

Dip down upon the northern shore 54 

Divorced, did they say ? 420 

Domestic love! not in proud palace halls . . 44 
Don't talk to me of parties. Nan . 386 

Dost thou love wandering? whither wouldst 

thou go? 43 

Dost thou idly ask to hear 162 



PAGE 

Dost thou use me as fond children do? . . . 435 

Down in a field one day in June 385 

Down on the Merrimac river 319 

Down the sultry arc of day 109 

Do what conscience says is right 369 

Do you like letter reading ? 440 

Drifted snow no more is seen 312 

Drive the nail aright, boys 369 

Drums and battle-cries 293 

Earth, of man the bounteous mother .... 332 
Each night when the sun is dying .... 578 

"Easy all !" rings out the order 442 

E'en in the spring and playtime of the year 107 

Ere the twilight bat was flitting 180 

Ere long the thriving brood outgrew their 

cradle 63 

Ethereal minstrel, pilgrim of the sky .... 82 
Even now methinks each little cottage . . . 309 
Every day is a fresh beginning 437 

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree 56 

Fair, purple children of the sun 64 

Farewell ! And never think of me 445 

Farewell ! if ever f mdest prayer 50 

Fanny, arrayed in the bloom of her beauty . 500 

Far back in the ages 320 

Far o'er the wave 552 

Far up above the city 426 

Fatigued with life, yet loath to part .... 254 

Fear no more the heat of the sun 453 

Fear not, O little flock, the foe 285 

Folks ain't got no right to censuah 494 

For every leaf the loveliest flower 423 

Forget not the field where they perished . . 269 
For lo I no sooner hag the cold withdrawn . 101 

For lo ! the days are hastening on 280 

For many years my little bird 452 

Forth comes the maid 326 

Free from the village corner 297 

From Christmas dance and pleasant plans. . 198 
From Salisbury Church the bells rang out. . 294 

From tlie old squire's dwelling 307 

From the weather-worn house 301 

Gentle mourner, fondly dreaming 253 

Get up, get up, for shame ! the blooming morn 108 
God made the country and man made the town 315 
God might have made the earth bring fortli . 54 

God sent his singers u])on earth 439 

Go, happy rose, and, interwove 172 

Go, lovely rose 110 

Gone art thou, Marion, Marion Moore . . . 159 

Gone at last 393 

Gone is the long, long winter night 167 

Grandfather's house was a gray old building 33 

Grandma was nodding 371 

Grandmothers are very nice folks . . , . . . 387 
Grandpapa looked at his fine new chair , . 49 



612 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



FAUE 

Grandpapa's spectacles cannot be found . . 371 
Great God I our heartfelt thanks to thee . . 310 

Green grow the rashes O 179 

Guvener B. is a sensible man 499 

Haifa league, half a league 211 

Half sleeping by the lire I sit 455 

Hamelin town's in Brunswick 366 

Hark, hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings . 60 
Hangs the picture bold and striking .... 237 

Happy insect, what can be 104 

Hark ! ah, the nightingale 58 

Hark ! I hear the voice again 490 

Hark ! 'mid the strife of waters 129 

Hark ! the nightingale begins his song ... 89 

Hark ! the vesper bell is ringing 546 

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star . 346 
Hast thou .sounded the depths of yonder sea"? 19 
Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard . . . 336 

Heaven overarches earth and sea 467 

He is coming, he is coming, my true-love . . 284 

He lay upon his dying bed 276 

He left a load of anthracite 467 

He loved the \vorld that hated him .... 393 

He offers me no palace 164 

Here is a gift for your wedding morning . . 576 
He rose at dawn and, fired with hope . . . 155 
Her eyelids dropped their silken eaves . .113 
Her height? jicrhaps you'd deem her till . . 158 
Here lies a poet ; stranger, if to thee .... 395 

Her words fell soft ujion my ear 174 

He said (I only give the heads), he said . . 394 

He said good-bye a year ago 562 

He's told his name to every grove 113 

He that loves a rosy cheek 193 

He was old and alone 418 

He wore a pair of tattered pants 361 

High noon had dried the morning dew . . . 15(5 

High over the wild sea-border 2l!t 

His is that language of the heart 401 

Hither, hither 70 

Home from his journey, Farmer John . . . 297 
Home's not merely four square walls .... 26 
Ho, pretty page, with the dimpled chin . . . 191 
Ho ! workers of the old-time styled .... 327 
How dear to this heart are the scenes of my 

childhood 47 

How dear to my sight are the shirts of my 

past days 480 

How delicious is the winning 159 

How little recks it where men die 240 

How^ many miles to Babyland ? 368 

How mournful seems, in broken dreams . . 45 

How smiled the land of France 429 

How sweet it w-as to breathe that cooler air . 286 
How vainly men themselves amaze .... 97 
Hurrah ! the seaward lireezes 335 

I ain't much on religion 467 



PAOP 

I am fresh from the conflict 293 

I am waiting for the shadows 4l7 

1 buckle to my slender side 280 

I cannot call thee lieautiful 186 

I cannot eat but little meat 48G 

I can't tell you much about the thing .... 496 
I come! I come! ye have called me long . . 102 
I come from haunts of coot and hern .... 90 

I come to thee, my wife 48 

I'd a dream to-night 456 

I'd been away from her three years .... 209 

I detest that waiting 264 

I'd kind o' like to have a cot 298 

I do not say that thou should'st never change 196 

I do not like to hear him pray 471 

If I could \w, a winged sprite 112 

If I siiouid see upon thy face 568 

If ill this world there is a flower 560 

If I were blind and thou shouldst enter . . . 180 

If the world seems cold to you 324 

If thou must love me, let it be for naught . . 195 

If thou wilt ease thine heart 451 

If thou hast lost a friend 43 

I had a little daughter 18 

I had a love, dark-haired was she 184 

I had a jiarrot once, an ugly bird 501 

I have in memory a little story 215 

I have thy love — I know no fear 194 

I kissed your lips and held your hands . . . 164 

I knew him for a gentleman 370 

I know where the limid faun abides . . . .229 

I know a maid, a dear little maid 357 

I know not the hour of his coming 476 

I know not that the men of old 438 

I know the song that the blue bird is singing . 371 
I'll wreath my sword in myrtle bough .... 274 
I love, and my heart that was dying ... 169 

I love at eventide to walk alone 80 

I love the sweetest maid alive 204 

I love to wander through the woodlands hoary 121 

I love to wake at early dawn 35 

■' I love you, mother," said little Ben .... 385 

I'm a pretty little kitten 384 

I'm a volatile thing, with an exquisite wing . 73 

" I'm going, now, to run away " 378 

I'm with you once again, my friends .... 258 

In a garden of roses I met her 564 

In ancient times the s:iered plow 302 

In brown holland apron she stood in the 

kitchen 26 

In each man's soul there lives a dream . . . 189 

I never knew how dear thou wert 147 

Insensible to high heroic deeds 260 

Into the lap of the bare brown earth .... 418 

Into the silent land 456 

In the bleak mid-winter 463 

In youth from rock to rock I went 58 

In the bonnie Scottish Highlands 460 

In the name of God advancing ...... 330 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



613 



In the silence of my chamber 93 

In tlie wigwam with Nokoniis 207 

1 rowed with Doris in my boat 195 

I sat at an open window 46.5 

I sat in the evening cool 356 

I saw a man with tottering steps 370 

I saw him on the battle eve 2!U 

I saw two clouds at morning 179 

I sigh for the time 311 

Is my lover on the sea 132 

I spurn your gilded bait, O King 263 

I stood tiptoe upon a little bill 114 

I stood within a vision's spell 57 

I take my chaperon to the pl;.y 424 

I thank thee, God, for all I've known . . . 441 

I think on thee in the night 44 

I thought the sparrow's note from heaven . . 96 
I too am changed, I scarce know why . . . 429 
It is a gem which bath the power to show . . 182 

It is many a year ago, d( ar 29 

It is not beauty I demand 199 

It is not that my lot is low 456 

It is not the fear of death 257 

It is the miller's daughter 190 

It hath been said for all who die 449 

It's of three jovial huntsmen 554 

I thought when I'd learned my letters . . . 381 

It was noon 473 

It was a hundred years ago 235 

It was a scene of peace and like a spell . . . 292 

It was late in mild October 336 

It was only a winsome way she had .... 172 

I've a deep domestic tragedy 478 

I've battled through adver.sity 250 

I've got a letter, parson, from my son . . . 477 

I've met with a good many people 415 

I walked down the vallej' of silence .... 438 

" I was so lonely," a violet said 437 

I will not kneel to yield my life 275 

" I wants a piece of cal'co " 353 

" I will come back," love cried 189 

I will not have the mad Clytie 74 

I would be with thee — near thee 50 

Jack, who sews his buttons on 477 

" Jane Jones keeps a whisperin' to me " . . 4'H8 

January, wan and gray lOl 

Jays in the orciiard are screaming 370 

.lenny kis-sed me when we met 195 

Jes'turn de back-log over dar 4^1 

Jingle, jingle, clear the way 299 

Just for a handful of silver he left us . . . . 447 
Just in thv mould and beauteous in tin- 
form . . ■ .130 

Kind traveler, do not paas me by 443 

Kis.sing her hair, I sat against her feet . . .186 

Kitty's charming voice and face 175 

Kn'.gbt, to love thee like a sister .... 206 



PAGB 

Lake of the soft and sunny hills 88 

Land of the west, though passing brief . . . 391 
Last night among bis fellow roughs .... 224 
Laugh of the mountain ! — lyre of bird and tree GO 

Launch thy bark, mariner I44 

Lay it aside ! her work ! no more she sits . . 334 
Let me come in where you sit weeping ... 47 

Let me not have this gloomy view 227 

Let not woman e'er complain 186 

Let others seek for empty joys 41 

Let them sing who may of the battle-fray . . 335 
Let us walk where reeds are growing ... 105 

Life may be given in many ways 407 

Life 1 We've been long together 440 

Lightly, Aljiine rover 344 

Listen, my children, and you shall hear . . 270 

Listen to the water-mill 418 

Little Jliss Brier came out of the ground . . 390 
Little streams are light and shadow .... 92 

Little Tommy and Peter 384 

Little wren, why do you warble ? 114 

Look what immortal floods the sunset pours 139 

Lord b'ess papa, mamma, Daisy 373 

Love is a sickness full of woes 184 

Love is enough. Let us not seek for gold . . 200 

Love me little, love me long 175 

Love not me for comely grace 193 

Low burns the summer afternoon 300 

iSIadam, we missed the train at B . . . 464 

"Make me the signal, dear!" she cried . . . -143 

"Make way for Liberty !" he cried 348 

Mamma said, "Little one, go and see" . . . 355 
^lan is tlie grief of those whose fate .... 405 
March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale . . . 225 
March, nor heed those arms that hold thee . 280 
Mark, leaning from the casement dark . . . 476 

May, sweet Jlay, again has come 106 

May, queen of bhjssonis 69 

Men of Harlech ! in the hollow 261 

']Mid many strangely-thrilling tales 265 

'Mid the brown hair and the black-haired men 428 

Midsummer's crimson morn 237 

Mild offspring of a dark and suUen sire ... 72 

^liiie eyes have .-^een the glory 234 

Mourn, for to us he seems the la.«t 410 

My boy, thou wilt dream the world is fair . . 17 

My dear and only love, I pray 199 

My first was young and very fair 193 

My soul to-day 142 

My little love, do you remember 160 

My mother sighed, the stream of pain . . . 333 
My true love hath my heart and I have his . 171 

Napoleon's banners at Boulogne 391 

Nay, tempt me not to love again 165 

Nay, ladv, one frown is enough 193 

Never give u|), it is wiser and better .... 252 
Night closed around the conqueror's way . . 293 



614 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



PAGE 

" No boat may ride," the captain cried . . . 210 

Nobody sits in the little ai-m-ch;iir 19 

No common object to your sight displays . . 2(30 
No leaf on the tree, no bloom on the lea . .102 

No new song sings the nightingale 106 

No, there is a necessity in fate 263 

Not from the sands or cloven rocks .... 97 

Not in the laughing bowere 323 

Not what we would, but what we must . . . 320 
Now are our brows bound with victorious 

wreaths 285 

Now daisies pied and violets blue 105 

Now fades the last long streak of snow . . . 105 

Now is done tliy long day's work 453 

" ' Now I lay ' — ^say it, darling " 385 

" Now, John," the district teacher says . . .483 

Now there's peace on the shore 288 

Now the bright morning-star, day's harbinger 109 
Nowhere fairer, sweeter, rarer 64 

O, a life in the country, how joyous .... 308 
O blackbird, sing me something well . . . .113 

blithely shines the bonny sun 432 

O darling spirits of the snow 76 

O, doubt me not ! The season 165 

O dear old friend, I come this way 245 

O'er the level plains 428 

Of all the men the world has seen 482 

Of all the notable things on earth . , . , 495 

O, fiiirest of the rural maids 312 

O, first of human blessings 296 

O for the robes of whiteness 471 

O for the time of the minuette 416 

Oft have I listened to a voice that spake . .105 
Oft, oft methinks, the while with thee ... 49 
O, it is great for our country to die .... 258 

O, it was but a dream I had 416 

O ! golden glory on sea and land 153 

0, greenly and fair in the lands of the sun . 316 

happy husband ! happy wife 31 

! he was a Bowery l)ootblack bold .... 504 
O, how blest are ye whose toils are ended . . 476 

O, maiden, heir of kings 422 

O, Mary, at the window be 392 

O memory ! thou fond deceiver 252 

O mother earth ! upon thy lap 405 

O mother of a mighty race 236 

Old master Brown brought his ferule down . 383 

Once in a golden hour 85 

Oace this soft turf, this rivulet's sands . . . 284 
Ouce upon a time life lay before me .... 475 

Oue honest Joiin Fletcher 30 

One more unfortunate 221 

One springtime day a gentle maid 178 

Oue ste]i and then another, and the longest 

walk is ended 324 

One tremulous star above the deepening West. 53 
One voice is silent round the evening fire . . 449 
One morning of the first sad fall 305 



PAGE 

O Nancy, wilt thou go with me 182 

" O, never mind, they're only boys " . . . . 377 

O never, no never 181 

Only a boy with his noise and fun 389 

Only a pressure of the hand 433 

Only last year, at Christmas time 216 

On Shiloh's dark and bloody ground .... 267 

On that deep retiring shore 245 

On the bank of a river was seated one day . 212 

On the crest of the hills I found it 257 

On thy unaltering blaze 89 

On what foundation stands the warrior's pride 400 

Over the dumb Campagna Sea 98 

O, peace of mind, angelic guest 475 

Orphan hours ! the year is dead 125 

O, say can you see by the dawn's early light . 243 
O, snatched away in beauty's bloom .... 454 

O, sweetest sweet and fairest fair 244 

O, sweet, shy girl with roses in her heart . . 379 

O, sun ! awakener of care 195 

O sun, so far up in the blue sky 370 

O, 'tis time I should talk to your mother . . 500 

Out in the pleasant sunshine 357 

O Victor Emmanuel, the King 395 

Over the mantle hangs the sword 282 

O, what can little hands do? 371 

O, when I am safe in my sylvan home . . . 320 
O, who would be bound to the barren sea . . 130 
O, why did you marry him, Biddy? .... 500 
O, why must I always be washed so clean . . 356 

Pack clouds away, and welcome day .... 67 
Patriots have toiled in their country's cause . 273 
Peace seemed to reign upon the earth .... 290 

Peace to the true man s ashes 464 

Pleasing 'tis, O modest moon 334 

Poor drudge of the city 312 

Pull, pull! and the pail is full 175 

Pray, have you seen our Tommy ..... 377 

Pray tell me, sailor, tell me true 138 

Press on ! there's no such word as fail .... 323 

Prize thou tiie nightingale 72 

Purple waves of evening play 385 

Put the broidery-frame away 30 

Quivering tears, heart-tearing cares . . . .121 

Red as the setting sun 259 

Rejoicing bird, whose wings have cleft the blue 104 

Rich, though poor 321 

Rifleman, shoot me a fancy shot 296 

Rippling through thy branches goes the sun- 
shine 98 

Robin I love, the bluebird and the wren . . 79 
Robin looks round on the wintry world . . .123 

Room, room to turn round in 67 

Roses, roses, red and white 89 

Saint Anthony at church 487 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



615 



Say over again, and yet once over again . . 100 

Says Reuben Knott uuto his fair 480 

Scenes of my birth, and careless childhood 

hours 38 

Season of mists and mellow fruitfuluess . . . 43 

Seated one day at the organ 459 

See! these ribbons gaily stream 574 

See now, stars the daik ghiom piercing . . . 550 

See the i'rog, the slimy, green frog 390 

See, from this counterfeit of liim 413 

September strews the woodland o'er .... 117 

Sighing like a furnace . . • 483 

Since the sweet knowledge I possess .... 34 

Sing a song of summer-time 306 

Sing to me, dear, of the twilight lime . ... 24 

Shall I, wasting in desjiair 193 

Shall I tell you whom I love? 190 

She luid heard of heroines far away .... 209 

Shepherds all and maidens fair 77 

She passed away like morning dew .... 444 
She sat and mused by the driftwood fire . . 19 

She .sat alone beside her hearth 213 

She sat on the jiorch in the sunsliine .... 52 

She's not so very gay 17(5 

Shut in from all the world without .... 85 

She was ironing dolly's new gown 487 

" She told me sumfin defful " 383 

Short is the story I say, if you will 207 

Shout for the mighty men 229 

Sleej), baby, sleep 558 

Slowly the mist o'er the meadow was creeping 276 

Slow sailed the weary mariners 154 

Snow-bound for earth 397 

Soft snow still rests within this wayside cleft . 126 

So help me gracious, efery day 490 

Soldier go — but not to claim 466 

Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er ... . 286 

Soldiers pass on from this rage of renown . . 267 
So many hills arising green and gray .... 462 
Some miners were sinking a shaft in Wales . 454 
Sometime, dear heart, yes sometime .... 464 
Some of the dust from the road of life . . . 423 

Some tiny elves one evening 360 

Songster of the russet coat 86 

Soon as the morning trembles o'er the sky . 321 

Sorrow weeps 447 

South Mountain towered upon our right . . 274 

Southward with fleet of ice 226 

Spake full well in language quaint and olden 66 

Speak and tell us, our Ximena • 289 

Speak gently, kindly to the poor 444 

Speed the news, speed the news 211 

Stay a little, golden curls 365 

Steady, boys, steady ! 277 

Still sits the schoolhouse by the road .... 214 

Storms of autumn sweep the sea 121 

Summer joys are o'er 61 

Summer's freshness fell around us 427 

Sun of the soul ! whose cheerful rays . . . 252 



Sunset and evening star 441 

Suppose, my little lady, 386 

Surely 'tis worth more than ducats 438 

Sweet are the joys of home 29 

Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes .... 181 
Sweet Emma Moreland of yonder town . . . 239 
Sweetheart, if there should come a time . . 166 

Sweet Molly was a maiden coy 160 

Sweet, sweet, sweet 90 

Swiftly from the mountain's brow 104 

Swifter far than summer's flight 456 

Take the open air 328 

Tears from the birth the doom must be . . . 28 
Tell me a story, just one, mother dear . . . 566 

Tender-handed stroke a nettle 439 

Thanks to my humble nature 312 

The angel of the flowers one day 77 

The autumn is old 11 N 

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht 380 

The auctioneer leaped on a chair 440 

The barge she sat in, like a burnished throne 398 
The bird that soars on highest wing . . . .417 
The birds fl}' home from east and west . . . 35 

The bonnie, bonnie bairn 572 

The blessed morn has come again 115 

The bud is in the bougli, and the leaf is in 

the bud 87 

The carven pillars of the trees 474 

'J he ceaseless hum of men 298 

The cock is crowing 102 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day . . 436 

The dying lips of a dear friend 445 

The dreary days of winter come 179 

The dewdrops glitter on the tree 157 

The despot's heel is on thy shore 239 

The day was gray and dark and chill .... 83 
The darkness that lumg upon Willumberg's 

walls 188 

The feast is o'er, now brimming wine . . . .184 
The flags of war like .storm-birds fl_v . • ■ . 296 

The gorse is yellow on the heath 72 

The harvest dawn's near 316 

The image of the moon at night 176 

The little cup-bearer entered the room . . . 369 

The man in the moon 371 

The merchant tempts me with his gold . . .317 
The minstrel came once more to view .... 268 

The month is now far spent ......... 120 

The moon had climbed the highest hill . . .141 
The moon is up and the frost is out .... 361 

The morning dawned full darkly 414 

The Muse's fairest light in no dark time . . 895 
The news comes whispering o'er the wires . . 393 

The night has a thousand eyes 172 

The old house by the lindens 26 

The Pilgrim Fathei-s, where are they .... 227 
The plains! The shouting drivers at the wheel 221 
The poets all have sung their songs . . - ■ 500 



616 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



PAGE 

The poets sing of Hebes fair 493 

The proudest now is but my peer 259 

The pumpkin-j)ie is yellow 119 

The pump straight as a soldier stands . . . 4i5 

The Quaker of the olden time 468 

Tiie quality of mercy is not strained .... 468 

The queen is proud on her throne 27 

The redbreast sings with a plaintive note . . 246 

The robin steals your praise away 126 

The rocky ledge runs far into the sea .... 133 
The rose is fairest when 'tis budding new . . 53 
The season comes when first we met .... 250 

The sea! the sea! the open sea 426 

The ship of state — above her skies are lilue . 273 

The sky grows dim 119 

The sky is changed, and such a change . . . 341 

The sky is ruddy in the east 327 

The snow had begun in the gloaming .... 124 

The snow has left the cottage-top 110 

" The snow is deep," the Justice said . . . .203 

The snow is white 434 

The splendor falls on castle walls 88 

The spring's gay promise melted into thee . . 116 

The stars are with tlie voyager 168 

The stars that stand about the moon .... 53 
The sunlight glitters keen and bright .... 96 
The sunliglit shone on the walls of .stone . . 375 

The sunny Italy may boast 95 

The tawny eagle seats his callow brood . . . 350 
The timid hands stretched forth to aid . . 427 
The toil is very long and I am tired . . .471 

The tower of old St. Nicholas 201 

The twilight is sad and cloudy 141 

Tlie warm sun is falling 123 

The weather-leech of the top-sail sliivfr; . . 136 
The weaver is sitting before his loom . . . 415 
The wine month shone in its golden priiuj . 343 

The wintry forests are gone . 492 

The wretch condemned with life to jnirt . . 4 J8 

The world is too crowded 331 

Then the night wore on 489 

There are gains for all our losses 416 

There are snows the lands to whiten .... 548 
There are noble he.ads bowed down and pale . 291 
There are three words that sweetly blend . . 38 
There is a rapture on the lonely shore . . .136 
There is a jewel which no Indian mines can 

buy . . ■ 439 

Tliere is a story told 282 

There is no friend like the old friend .... 22 

There is no rose without a thorn 474 

There, little girl, don't cry 355 

There once was a king on his throne .... 215 

There sat one day in quiet 243 

There's a box in the cellar, a bundle upstairs . 24 

There's a little rustic seat 192 

There's a lonely sheaf on the harvest field . . 301 

There's always a river to cross 324 

There's a wedding in the orchard, dear . . .317 



PAQE 

There's a wedding to-day in the garden below 353 
There's never a rose in all the world .... 44 

There wa'n't any use o' frettin' 330 

There was a little chicken 383 

There were two kittens, a black and a gray . 384 
There was a young girl had two beaux . . . 480 
There was not on that day a speck to stain. . 116 
They gain by twilight's hour their lonely isle 462 
These years of life ! what do they seem ? . . . 27 

They gather in solemn council 357 

They say if our beloved dead 473 

There burns a star o'er Bethlehem town . . . 459 

They've left the old church, Nancy 460 

They made her a grave too cold and damp . 242 
These mountains piercing the blue sky ... 56 

They may talk of love in a cottage 33 

They sat alone by the bright wood fire . . . 444 
Thine eyes shall see the light of distant skies . 399 
Think not I love him though I ask for him . 183 

This book is all that's left me now 553 

This figure that thou here seest put .... 392 
This is the place. Stand still, my steed . . . 178 

This life is like a troubled sea 145 

This little rill, that from the springs .... 71 
This morning when all the rest had gone 

down 

This was the ruler of the land 

Those few pale autumn flowers 

Thou art sounding on, thou mightv sea . . . 
Thou blossom bright with autumn dew . . . 

Though the snow is falling fast 

Thou wert the fir.-t of all I knew 

Three twangs of the horn 

Three years she grew in sun and shower . . 
Through her forced, abnormal quiet .... 
Through lier tears slie gazed upon it ... . 

Through the golden corn we went 

Thy bower is finished, fairest 

Thy features do not wear the light 

'Tis a dozen or so of years ago 

'Tis done — but yesterday a king 

'Tis done ! dread winter spreads liis latest 

glooms 

'Tis gone at last and I am glad 

'Tis midnight ! On the mountains brown . . 
'Tis morn : the sea-breeze seems to bring . . 

'Tis niglit on the waters 

'Tis not with gilded sabres 

'Tis past ! The iron north 

'Tis said that when Dan Cupid 

'Tis the voice of the scientist 

'Tis the last rose of summer 

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb 

To make this condiment 

To marry, or not to marry ? that's the ques- 
tion 172 

To one who has been long in city pent . , 113 
To the yard by the barn came the fiirmcr . . 299 
To think the moonlight shines to-night ... 29 



362 
232 
118 
148 
85 
305 
252 
99 
30 
15J 
181 
180 
198 
193 
498 
407 

428 
32 

283 
200 
140 
240 
94 
197 
478 
116 
451 
5f)3 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



617 



PACK 

To weary hearts, to mourning liomes .... 430 
Twas a hoautiliil night (jn a l)eautiful deep . 87 
'Tuas a suiuniciy (hiy in the last of May . . 418 

'Twas niitlnight dark 202 

'Twas hue in the autuiiiu i,l" '5.') 487 

'Twas only a wandering pilgrim 249 

'Twas on tiic shores that romul the coast . . 232 

'Twas post meridian, half-past lour 146 

'Twas the day beside the Pyrainids .... 277 
'Twas twilight and the sunless day went down 150 

Twilight shade is calmly falling 163 

Two little ones grown tired of play .... 152 

Two little squirrels out in the sun 364 

Two spiders, so the story goes 326 

Two thousand years have rolled around . . 466 
Two voices are there — one is of the sea . . . 347 

Unanswered yet ! the jirayer your lips have 

ideadcd . ". ' . '. 402 

Uidiappy life, while life was in its s])ring . . 395 

Unto me glad summer 116 

Up in early morning light 304 

Up in the garret the grandmother sits ... 25 
Up ! Quit thy bower ! Late wears the liour . 1 78 

Up springs the lark 78 

Up the dale and down the bourne 56 

Up with the starry banners 378 

Voice of summer, keen and shrill 40 

Wake, awake, for night is flying 584 

^\'ait not the morrow, but forgive me now . . 434 
Wars fiery hand scales down the walls . . . 281 
We are up and away ere the sunrise hath 

kissed 310 

We count the broken lyres that rest .... 456 
We gathered round the festive board .... 220 

We have boiled the hydrant water 494 

We have a weapon firmer set 273 

We left behind the painted buoy 153 

We miss her footfall on the floor 42 

We sat within the farmhouse old ... .40 

We wandered to the Pine Forest 83 

We stood upon the ragged rocks 61 

We were not many, we who stood 230 

We were on i)icket, sir, he and I 220 

We would meet and welcome thee 392 

Weep not for him ! the Thracians wisely gain 397 
Wee, sloekit, cow'ring, tim'rous beastie ... 80 

We'll not weep for summer over 74 

Welcome, pale primrose 106 

Well, whv don't you say it, Inisband .... 314 
Were half the power that fills the world . . 288 

Werther had a love for Charlotte 493 

What shall I do with all the days and hours 36 

What, wakest thou, spring? 107 

What a symbol of love is that circle of gold . 23 
What do you think of my youngster .... 255 
What, was it a dream? Am I ail alone? . . 292 



PACE 

What telegraphed word 264 

Wiuit care we for skies that are snowing? . . 369 
What power is this that me — a timid maid . 580 
What great improvements now-a-days . . . 486 

What was it tiiat I loved so well 134 

What songster wakens when across the snow 125 
What though you tell each gay little rover . 77 

When all the tiny wheeling stars 478 

When banners are waving 287 

When breezes are soft and skies are fair . . 318 

When Delia on the plain appears 191 

When freedom from the land of Spain . . . 260 
When first the Friendship-flower is planted . 442 
When God shall o;:e the gates of gold . . . 471 
When in the storm on Albion's coast . . . .134 

WTien I write to you . 164 

When leaves grow sear all things take sombre 

hue 79 

AVhen lessons and tasks are all ended . . . .374 

When Maria Jane's elected 492 

When midnight o'er the moonless skies . . . 253 
When morning broke and baby came .... 37 

When on the fragrant sandal-tree 459 

When should lovers breathe their vows , . . 176 

When the British warrior queen 232 

When the dying flame of day 264 

When the frost is on the punkiu 496 

When the merry laik doth gild ...... 116 

When the sunlight iell with radiant glory . . 374 

When thou art near me 187 

When your beauty appears 181 

Where art thou, O my beautiful 166 

Where is the German's fatherland 243 

Where mountains round a lonely day .... 321 

Where olive leaves were twinkling 223 

Where, O where is winter? 124 

Where shall we make her grave? 447 

When spring to woods and wastes around . . 228 

Where sunless rivers weei) 457 

Where the pools are bright and deep .... 376 

Which I wish to remark 219 

While the moon with sudden gleam .... 100 
White breakers foam upon the desolate sands 117 
Who has not dreamed a world of bliss . . . 112 
Who has not heard of the Vale of Cashmere? 59 
Who murmurs that his heart is sick .... 329 

Who would be a mermaid fair 149 

Who would scorn his humble fellow .... 331 

Why don't you laugh, young man 488 

Wildly round our woodland quarters .... 337 
Wilfred has fallen, but o'er him stood .... 263 

Will you take a walk with me 368 

Witch-hazel, dogwood, and the maple here . . 69 

With fingers weary and worn 339 

Within a slicltered, mossy glade 225 

With little here to do or see 81 

With nature's self 409 

With troubled face and neglected hair . . . 472 
Wo for my vine-clad home ! 280 



618 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



PAOE 

Woe unto us, not her 402 

Work while you work 368 

Would you be young again . ._ 252 

Would you hear of an old-fashioned sea-fight 155 
Wuust we went a-fishin' 353 

Years, years ago, ere yet my dreams . . . .171 

Year after year, unto her feet ...... 170 

Ve who would have your features florid . . 328 
Ve have been fresh and green 115 



PAGE 

Yes, I'm a ruined man, Kate 52 

Yes, I behold again the place 245 

Youth is the virgin nurse of tender hope . . 254 
You are tickle, oh, so fickle, dare I tell . . . 157 
Young friends, to whom life's early days . . . 360 

Yo' may tell nie ob pastries 490 

You needn't be trying to comfort me ... 380 
You sail and you seek for the Fortunate Isles 416 

You took me, Henry, when a girl 25 

You think I am dead 441 




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